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POEMS. 


UKIVERSITT  OF 

CALIFORNT 


POEMS 


BY 


SAMUEL     ROGERS. 


NUMEPuOUS    ILLUSTUATIONi 


^   "NeMi   Stiftfon, 


REVISED,   WITH    ADDITIONS  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


P  il!  L  A  D  E  L  r  n  I  A  : 

LEA    AND    BLANCIIARI). 

i84y. 


rillLADELrillA: 
C.   SHERMAN,    PRINTER. 


Oh  could  my  mind,  unfolded  in  my  page, 

Enlighten  climes  and  mould  a  future  age  ; 

There  as  it  glowed,  with  noblest  frenzy  fraught, 

Dispense  the  treasures  of  exalted  t'..ouglit ; 

To  Virtue  wake  the  pulses  of  the  heart, 

And  bid  the  tear  of  emulation  start ! 

Oh  could  it  still,  thro'  each  succeeding  year, 

My  life,  my  manners,  and  my  name  endear ; 

And,  when  the  poet  sleeps  in  silent  dust, 

Still  hold  communion  with  the  wise  and  just ! — 

Yet  should  this  Verse,  my  leisure's  best  resource, 

When  thro'  the  world  it  steals  its  secret  course, 

Revive  but  once  a  generous  wish  supprest. 

Chase  but  a  sigh,  or  charm  a  care  to  rest ; 

In  one  good  deed  a  fleeting  liour  employ. 

Or  flush  one  faded  cheek  with  honest  joy  ; 

Blest  were  my  lines,  tho'  limited  their  sphere, 

Tho'  sliort  their  dale,  as  ills  who  traced  them  here. 

1793. 


>a/ 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


A  GARDEN  SCENE.   ENGRAVED  BY  MILLER,  FROM  A  DRAWING  EY  TURNER. 
LEVELLYN  HALL.   ENGRAVED  BY  MILLER,  FROM  A  DRAWING  BY  TURNER. 
SUNRISE  ON  TORNARO.  ENGRAVED  BY  M'ALLIS,  FFvOM  A  DRAWING  BY  TURNER. 
THE  RIALTO  EY  MOONLIGHT.   ENGRAVED  BY  MILLER,  FROM  A  DRAWING  EY 

TURNER. 
THE  WOODLAND  FOUNTAIN.   ENGRAVED  BY  FINDEN,  FROM  A  DRAWING  BY 

STOTHARD. 
THE  CHAPEL  OF  STE.  JULIENNE.   ENGRAVED  BY  GOODALL,  FROM  A  DRAWING 

BY  TURNER. 
THE  CHAMOIS-HUNT  AMONG  THE  ALPS.   ENGRAVED  BY  GOODALL,  FROM  A 

DRAWING  BY  TURNER. 
COLUMBUS  DISCOVERING  LAND.   ENGRAVED  EY  GOODALL,  FROM  A  DRAWING 

BY  TURNER. 
CORTES  AND  PIZARRO  IN  THE  CHAPEL  OF  LA  RAEIDA.   ENGRAVED  EY  GOOD- 
ALL,  FROM  A  DRAWING  BY  TURNER. 
"DATUR  HORA  QUIETI."   ENGRAVED  BY  GOODALL,  FROM  A  DRAWING  BY 

TURNER. 


CONTENTS, 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY 17 

HUMAN  LIFE 77 

AN  EPISTLE  TO  A  FRIEND 135 

JACQUELINE 161 

ODE  TO  SUPERSTITION 180 

WRITTEN  TO  BE  SPOKEN  IN  A  THEATRE 188 

ON    .  .   .    ASLEEP 192 

FROM  A  GREEK  EPIGRAM 193 

FROM  EURIPIDES 193 

FROM  AN  ITALIAN  SONNET 194 

A  CHARACTER 194 

AN  EXTRACT 195 

A  FAREWELL 195 

-THE  SAILOR 197 

TO  AN  OLD  OAK ' 199 

TO  TWO  SISTERS 201 

X)N  A  TEAR 202 

TO  A  VOICE  THAT  HAD  BEEN  LOST 203 

THE  BOY  OF  EGREMOND 205 

WRITTEN  IN  A  SICK  CHAMBER 207 


viii  CONTENTS. 

TO    ...    ON  TIIF,  nrATII  OF  IIEK  SISTEK 208 

TO  A  FRIEND  ON  HIS  MARRIAGE 209 

TO  THE  YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER  OF  LADY 211 

THE  ALPS  AT  DAYimEAK 212 

WRITTEN  AT  MIDNIGHT 213 

TO 213 

TO  THE  TORSO 214 

A  WISH 215 

TO  THE  GNAT 21G 

AN  EPITAPH  ON  A  ROBIN-REDBREAST 217 

AN  ITALIAN  SONG 218 

TO  THE  BUTTERFLY 219 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS  OF  SCOTLAND 219 

INSCRIPTION  IN  THE  CRIMEA 222 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  TEMPLE 224 

WRITTEN  IN  1834 224 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  STRATFIELD  SAYE 227 

REFLECTIONS 228 

WRITTEN  AT  DROPMORE 232 

WRITTEN  IN  JULY,  1834 233 

WRITTEN  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 234 

THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS 237 


THE 


PLEASURES   OF   MEMORY. 


IN  TWO  PARTS. 


1792. 


.     .     .     .     Hoc  est 

Vivere  bis,  vita,  posse  priore  frui. 

Mart. 


LI  BR. 

UNIVERSITY  OP 

<;alif()rxia 


THE 


PLEASURES    OE   MEMORY. 


PART  I. 


Dolce  scntier, 

Colle,  che  mi  piacesti,       .... 
Ov'  ancor  per  usanza  Amor  mi  mena ; 
Ben  riconosco  in  voi  1'  usate  forme, 
Non,  lasso,  in  me. 

Pktrarcii. 


ANALYSIS  OF  THE  FIRST  PART. 

The  Poem  begins  with  the  description  of  an  obscure 
village,  and  of  the  pleasing  melancholy  which  it  ex- 
cites on  being  revisited  after  a  long  absence.  This 
mixed  sensation  is  an  effect  of  the  Memory.  From  an 
effect  we  naturally  ascend  to  the  cause ;  and  the  subject 
proposed  is  then  unfolded  with  an  investigation  of  the 
nature  and  leading  principles  of  this  faculty. 

It  is  evident  that  our  ideas  flow  in  continual  succes- 
sion, and  introduce  each  other  with  a  certain  degree  of 
regularity.  They  are  sometimes  excited  by  sensible 
objects,  and  sometimes  by  an  internal  operation  of  the 
mind.  Of  the  former  species  is  most  probably  the  me- 
mory of  brutes ;  and  its  many  sources  of  pleasure  to 
them,  as  well  as  to  us,  are  considered  in  the  first  part. 
The  latter  is  the  most  perfect  degree  of  memory,  and 
forms  the  subject  of  the  second. 

When  ideas  have  any  relation  whatever,  they  are 
attractive  of  each  other  in  the  mind  ;  and  the  percep- 
tion of  any  object  naturally  leads  to  the  idea  of  another, 


22  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

which  was  connected  with  it  either  in  time  or  place,  or 
which  can  be  compared  or  contrasted  with  it.  Hence 
arises  our  attachment  to  inanimate  objects ;  hence  also, 
in  some  degree,  the  love  of  our  country,  and  the  emotion 
with  which  we  contemplate  the  celebrated  scenes  of 
antiquity.  Hence  a  picture  directs  our  thoughts  to  the 
original :  and,  as  cold  and  darkness  suggest  forcibly  the 
ideas  of  heat  and  light,  he,  who  feels  the  infirmities  of 
age,  dwells  most  on  whatever  reminds  him  of  the  vigour 
and  vivacity  of  his  youth. 

The  associating  principle,  as  here  employed,  is  no 
less  conducive  to  virtue  than  to  happiness ;  and,  as  such, 
it  frequently  discovers  itself  in  the  most  tumultuous 
scenes  of  life.  It  addresses  our  finer  feelings,  and  gives 
exercise  to  every  mild  and  generous  propensity. 

Not  confined  to  man,  it  extends  through  all  animated 
nature  ;  and  its  effects  are  peculiarly  striking  in  the 
domestic  tribes. 


:k8I  . 


THE 


TLEASURES     OF     MEMORY. 


Twilight's  soft  dews  steal  o'er  the  village-green, 
With  magic  tints  to  harmonize  the  scene. 
Stilled  is  the  hum  that  thro'  the  hamlet  broke, 
When  round  the  ruins  of  their  ancient  oak 
The  peasants  flocked  to  hear  the  minstrel  play, 
And  games  and  carols  closed  the  busy  day. 
Her  wheel  at  rest,  the  matron  thrills  no  more 
With  treasured  tales,  and  legendary  lore. 
All,  all  are  fled ;  nor  mirth  nor  music  flows 
To  chase  the  dreams  of  innocent  repose. 
All,  all  are  fled  ;  yet  still  I  linger  here  I 
What  secret  charms  this  silent  spot  endear .' 

Mark  yon  old  Mansion  frowning  thro'  the  trees. 
Whose  hollow  turret  wooes  the  whistling  breeze. 
That  casement,  arched  with  ivy's  brownest  shade 
First  to  these  eyes  the  light  of  heaven  conveyed. 


24  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

The  mouldering  gateway  strews  the  grass-grown  court, 

Once  the  calm  scene  of  many  a  simple  sport ; 

When  nature  pleased,  for  life  itself  was  new. 

And  the  heart  promised  what  the  fancy  drew. 
See,  thro'  the  fractured  pediment  revealed. 

Where  moss  inlays  the  rudely-sculptured  shield, 

The  martin's  old,  hereditary  nest. 

Long  may  the  ruin  spare  its  hallowed  guest ! 
As  jars  the  hinge,  what  sullen  echoes  call! 

Oh  haste,  unfold  the  hospitable  hall ! 

That  hall,  where  once,  in  antiquated  state, 

The  chair  of  justice  held  the  grave  debate. 
\     Now  stained  with  dews,  with  cobwebs  darkly  hung, 
'Oft  has  its  roof  with  peals  of  rapture  rung  ; 

When  round  yon  ample  board,  in  due  degree. 

We  sweetened  every  meal  with  social  glee. 

The  heart's  light  laugh  pursued  the  circling  jest ; 

And  all  was  sunshine  in  each  little  breast. 

'Twas  here  we  chased  the  slipper  by  the  sound ; 

And  turned  the  blindfold  hero  round  and  round. 

'Twas  here,  at  eve,  we  formed  our  fairy  ring ; 

And  Fancy  fluttered  on  her  wildest  wing. 

Giants  and  genii  chained  each  wondering  ear ; 

And  orphan-sorrows  drew  the  ready  tear. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  25 

Oft  with  the  babes  we  wandered  in  the  wood, 

Or  viewed  the  forest-feats  of  Robin  Ifood : 

Oft,  fancy-led,  at  midnight's  fearful  hour, 

With  startling  step  we  scaled  the  lonely  tower ; 

O'er  infant  innocence  to  hang  and  weep, 

Murdered  by  ruffian  hands  when  smiling  in  its  sleep. 

Ye  Household  Deities !  whose  guardian  eye 
Marked  each  pure  thought,  ere  registered  on  high ; 
Still,  still  ye  walk  the  consecrated  ground. 
And  breathe  the  soul  of  Inspiration  round. 

As  o'er  the  dusky  furniture  I  bend. 
Each  chair  awakes  the  feeling  of  a  friend. 
The  storied  arras,  source  of  fond  delight. 
With  old  achievement  charms  the  wildered  sight  I 
And  still,  with  Heraldry's  rich  hues  imprest, 
On  the  dim  window  glows  the  pictured  crest. 
The  screen  unfolds  its  many-coloured  chart. 
The  clock  still  points  its  moral  to  the  heart. 
That  faithful  monitor  'twas  heaven  to  hear, 
When  soft  it  spoke  a  promised  pleasure  near ; 
And  has  its  sober  hand,  its  simple  chime. 
Forgot  to  trace  the  feathered  feet  of  Time  ? 
That  massive  beam,  with  curious  carvings  wrought, 
Whence  the  caged  linnet  soothed  my  pensive  thought ; 

4 


26  ROGERS'  pop:ms. 

Those  muskets,  cased  with  venerable  rust ; 
Those  once-loved  forms,  still  breathing  thro'  their  dust, 
Still,  from  the  frame  in  mould  gigantic  cast, 
Starting  to  life — all  whisper  of  the  Past ! 

As  thro'  the  garden's  desert  paths  I  rove. 
What  fond  illusions  swarm  in  every  grove ! 
How  oft,  when  purple  evening  tinged  the  west, 
We  watched  the  emmet  to  her  grainy  nest ; 
Welcomed  the  wild-bee  home  on  weary  wing. 
Laden  with  sweets,  the  choicest  of  the  spring  I     . 
How  oft  inscribed,  with  Friendship's  votive  rhyme. 
The  bark  now  silvered  by  the  touch  of  Time ; 
Soared  in  the  swing,  half  pleased  and  half  afraid, 
Thro'  sister  elms  that  waved  their  summer-shade ; 
Or  strewed  with  crumbs  yon  root-inwoven  seat, 
To  lure  the  redbreast  from  his  lone  retreat ! 

Childhood's  loved  group  revisits  every  scene ; 
The  tangled  wood-walk,  and  the  tufted  green ! 
Indulgent  Memory  wakes,  and  lo,  they  live ! 
Clothed  with  far  softer  hues  than  Light  can  give. 
Thou  first,  best  friend  that  Heaven  assigns  below 
To  soothe  and  sweeten  all  the  cares  wc  know ; 
Whose  glad  suggestions  still  each  vain  alarm, 
When  nature  fades,  and  life  forgets  to  charm  ; 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  27 

Thee  would  the  Muse  invoke ! — to  thee  belong 
The  sage's  precept  and  the  poet's  song.  • 

What  softened  views  thy  magic  glass  reveals, 
When  o'er  the  landscape  Time's  meek  twilight  steals ! 
As  when  in  ocean  sinks  the  orb  of  day, 
Long  on  the  wave  reflected  lustres  play ; 
Thy  tempered  gleams  of  happiness  resigned 
Glance  on  the  darkened  mirror  of  the  mind. 

The  School's  lone  porch,  with  reverend  mosses  gray, 
Just  tells  the  pensive  pilgrim  where  it  lay. 
Mute  is  the  bell  that  rung  at  peep  of  dawn. 
Quickening  my  truant-feet  across  the  lawn  ; 
Unheard  the  shout  that  rent  the  noontide  air. 
When  the  slow  dial  gave  a  pause  to  care. 
Up  springs,  at  every  step,  to  claim  a  tear, 
Some  little  friendship  formed  and  cherished  here ; 
And  not  the  lightest  leaf,  but  trembling  teems 
With  golden  visions,  and  romantic  dreams ! 

Down  by  yon  hazel  copse,  at  evening,  blazed 
The  Gipsy's  fagot — there  we  stood  and  gazed ; 
Gazed  on  her  sun-burnt  face  with  silent  awe. 
Her  tattered  mantle,  and  her  hood  of  straw  ; 
Her  moving  lips,  her  caldron  brimming  o'er  ; 
The  drowsy  brood  that  on  her  back  she  bore, 


28  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Imps,  in  the  barn  with  mousing  owlets  bred, 

From  rifled  roost  at  nightly  revel  fed ; 

Whose  dark  eyes  flashed  thro'  locks  of  blackest  shade, 

When  in  the  breeze  the  distant  watch-dog  bayed : — 

And  heroes  fled  the  Sibyl's  muttered  call. 

Whose  elfin  prowess  scaled  the  orchard-wall. 

As  o'er  my  palm  the  silver  piece  she  drew, 

And  traced  the  line  of  life  with  searching  view, 

How  throbbed  my  fluttering  pulse  with  hopes  and  fears, 

To  learn  the  colour  of  my  future  years ! 

Ah,  then,  what  honest  triumph  flushed  my  breast ; 
This  truth  once  known — To  bless  is  to  be  blest ! 
We  led  the  bending  beggar  on  his  way, 
(Bare  were  his  feet,  his  tresses  silver-gray) 
Soothed  the  keen  pangs  his  aged  spirit  felt, 
And  on  his  tale  with  mute  attention  dwelt. 
As  in  his  scrip  we  dropt  our  little  store, 
And  sighed  to  think  that  little  was  no  more. 
He  breathed  his  prayer,  "Long  may  such  goodness  live!" 
'Twas  all  he  gave,  'twas  all  he  had  to  give. 
Angels,  when  Mercy's  mandate  winged  their  flight. 
Had  stopt  to  dwell  with  pleasure  on  the  sight. 

But  hark  !  thro'  those  old  firs,  with  sullen  swell. 
The  church-clock  strikes !  ye  tender  scenes,  farewell ! 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  ^  29 

It  calls  me  hence,  beneath  their  shade,  to  trace 
The  few  fond  lines  that  Time  may  soon  efface. 

On  yon  gray  stone,  that  fronts  the  chancel-door, 
Worn  smooth  by  busy  feet  now  seen  no  more, 
Each  eve  we  shot  the  marble  thro'  the  ring, 
When  the  heart  danced,  and  life  was  in  its  spring ; 
Alas  !  unconscious  of  the  kindred  earth. 
That  faintly  echoed  to  the  voice  of  mirth. 

The  glow-worm  loves  her  emerald-light  to  shed, 
Where  now  the  sexton  rests  his  hoary  head. 
Oft,  as  he  turned  the  greensward  with  his  spade. 
He  lectured  every  youth  that  round  him  played  ; 
And,  calmly  pointing  where  our  fathers  lay, 
Roused  us  to  rival  each,  the  hero  of  his  day. 

Hush,  ye  fond  flutterings,  hush !  while  here  alone 
1  search  the  records  of  each  mouldering  stone. 
Guides  of  my  life  !  Instructors  of  my  youth ! 
Who  first  unveiled  the  hallowed  form  of  Truth  ; 
Whose  every  word  enlightened  and  endeared  ; 
In  age  beloved,  in  poverty  revered ; 
In  Friendship's  silent  register  ye  live, 
Nor  ask  the  vain  memorial  Art  can  give. 

But  when  the  sons  of  peace,  of  pleasure  sleep, 
When  only  Sorrow  wakes,  and  wakes  to  weep, 


30  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

What  spells  entrance  my  visionary  mind 

With  sighs  so  sweet,  with  transports  so  refined  ? 

Ethereal  Power  !  who  at  the  noon  of  night 
Recall'st  the  far-fled  spirit  of  delight ; 
From  whom  that  musing,  melancholy  mood 
Which  charms  the  wise,  and  elevates  the  good  ; 
Blest  Memory,  hail !  Oh  grant  the  grateful  Muse, 
Her  pencil  dipt  in  Nature's  living  hues, 
To  pass  the  clouds  that  round  thy  empire  roll, 
And  trace  its  airy  precincts  in  the  soul. 

Lulled  in  the  countless  chambers  of  the  brain. 
Our  thoughts  are  linked  by  many  a  hidden  chain. 
Awake  but  one,  and  lo,  what  myriads  rise  !* 
Each  stamps  its  image  as  the  other  flies. 
Each,  as  the  various  avenues  of  sense 
Delight  or  sorrow  to  the  soul  dispense, 
Brightens  or  fades ;  yet  all,  with  magic  art. 
Control  the  latent  fibres  of  the  heart. 
As  studious  Prospero's  mysterious  spell 
Drew  every  subject-spirit  to  his  cell ; 


*  Namque  illic  posuit  solium,  et  sua  templa  sacravit 
Mens  animi :  hanc  circum  corunt,  densoque  foruntur 
Agmine  notitiffi,  simulacraque  tenuia  rerum. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  31 

Each,  at  thy  call,  advances  or  retires, 
As  judgment  dictates,  or  the  scene  inspires. 
Each  thrills  the  seat  of  sense,  that  sacred  source 
Whence  the  fine  nerves  direct  their  mazy  course. 
And  thro'  the  frame  invisibly  convey 
The  subtle,  quick  vibrations  as  they  play ; 
Man's  little  universe  at  once  o'ercast, 
At  once  illumined  when  the  cloud  is  past. 


Survey  the  globe,  each  ruder  realm  explore ; 
From  Reason's  faintest  ray  to  Newton  soar.    ^ 
What  different  spheres  to  human  bliss  assigned ! 
What  slow  gradations  in  the  scale  of  mind  I 
Yet  mark  in  each  these  mystic  wonders  wrought ; 
Oh  mark  the  sleepless  energies  of  thought  I 

The  adventurous  boy,  that  asks  his  little  share, 
And  hies  from  home  with  many  a  gossip's  prayer, 
Turns  on  the  neighbouring  hill,  once  more  to  see 
The  dear  abode  of  peace  and  privacy  ; 
And  as  he  turns,  the  thatch  among  the  trees. 
The  smoke's  blue  wreaths  ascending  with  the  breeze. 
The  village-common  spotted  white  with  sheep, 
The  churchyard  yews  round  which  his  fathers  sleep ; 


32  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

All  rouse  Reflection's  sadly-pleasing  train, 
And  oft  he  looks  and  weeps,  and  looks  again. 

So,  when  the  mild  Tupia  dared  explore 
Arts  yet  untaught,  and  worlds  unknown  before. 
And,  with  the  sons  of  Science,  wooed  the  gale 
That,  rising,  swelled  their  strange  expanse  of  sail ; 
So,  when  he  breathed  his  firm  yet  fond  adieu. 
Borne  from  his  leafy  hut,  his  carved  canoe. 
And  all  his  soul  best  loved — such  tears  he  shed, 
While  each  soft  scene  of  summer-beauty  fled, 
Long  o'er  the  wave  a  wistful  look  he  cast, 
Long  watched  the  streaming  signal  from  the  mast ; 
Till  twilight's  dewy  tints  deceived  his  eye, 
And  fairy-forests  fringed  the  evening-sky. 

So  Scotia's  Queen,  as  slowly  dawned  the  day, 
Rose  on  her  couch,  and  gazed  her  soul  away. 
Her  eyes  had  blessed  the  beacon's  glimmering  height, 
That  faintly  tipt  the  feathery  surge  with  light ; 
But  now  the  morn  with  orient  hues  pourtraycd 
Each  castled  clifl*,  and  brown  monastic  shade : 
All  touched  the  talisman's  resistless  spring, 
And  lo,  what  busy  tribes  were  instant  on  the  wing ! 

Thus  kindred  objects  kindred  thoughts  inspire. 
As  summer-clouds  flash  forth  electric  fire. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  33 

And  hence  this  spot  gives  back  the  joys  of  youth, 
Warm  as  the  life,  and  with  the  mirror's  truth. 
Hence  home-felt  pleasure  prompts  the  Patriot's  sigh ; 
This  makes  him  wish  to  live,  and  dare  to  die. 
For  this  young  Foscari,  whose  hapless  fate 
Venice  should  blush  to  hear  the  Muse  relate, 
When  exile  wore  his  blooming  years  away, 
To  sorrow's  long  soliloquies  a  prey, 
When  reason,  justice,  vainly  urged  his  cause, 
For  this  he  roused  her  sanguinary  laws ; 
Glad  to  return,  tho'  Hope  could  grant  no  more. 
And  chains  and  torture  hailed  him  to  the  shore. 
And  hence  the  charm  historic  scenes  impart  ; 
Hence  Tiber  awes,  and  Avon  melts  the  heart. 
Aerial  forms  in  Tempe's  classic  vale 
Glance  thro'  the  gloom,  and  whisper  in  the  gale ; 
In  wild  Vaucluse  with  love  and  Laura  dwell, 
And  watch  and  weep  in  Eloisa's  cell. 
'Twas  ever  thus.     Young  Ammon,  when  he  sought 
Where  Ilium  stood,  and  where  Peudes  fought. 
Sate  at  the  helm  himself     No  meaner  hand 
Steered  thro'  the  waves;  and,  when  he  struck  the  land. 
Such  in  his  soul  the  ardour  to  explore. 
PEUDEs-like,  he  leaped  the  first  ashore. 

5 


34  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

'Twas  ever  thus.     As  now  at  Virgil's  tomb 
We  bless  the  shade,  and  bid  the  verdure  bloom : 
So  TuLLY  paused,  amid  the  wrecks  of  Time, 
On  the  rude  stone  to  trace  the  truth  sublime ; 
When  at  his  feet,  in  honoured  dust  disclosed, 
The  immortal  sage  of  Syracuse  reposed. 
And  as  he  long  in  sweet  delusion  hung, 
Where  once  a  Plato  taught,  a  Pindar  sung ; 
Who  now  but  meets  him  musing,  when  he  roves 
His  ruined  Tusculan's  romantic  groves  ? 
In  Rome's  great  forum,  who  but  hears  him  roll 
His  moral  thunders  o'er  the  subject  soul  ? 

And  hence  that  calm  delight  the  portrait  gives 
We  gaze  on  every  feature  till  it  lives ! 
Still  the  fond  lover  sees  the  absent  maid  ; 
And  the  lost  friend  still  lingers  in  his  shade  I 
Say  why  the  pensive  widow  loves  to  weep, 
When  on  her  knee  she  rocks  her  babe  to  sleep  : 
Tremblingly  still,  she  lifts  his  veil  to  trace 
The  father's  features  in  his  infant  face. 
The  hoary  grandsire  smiles  the  hour  away. 
Won  by  the  raptures  of  a  game  at  play ; 
He  bends  to  meet  each  artless  burst  of  joy, 
Forgets  his  age,  and  acts  again  the  boy. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  35 

What  tho'  the  iron  school  of  War  erase 
Each  milder  virtue,  and  each  softer  grace  ; 
What  tho'  the  fiend's  torpedo-touch  arrest 
Each  gentler,  finer  impulse  of  the  breast ; 
Still  shall  this  active  principle  preside, 
And  wake  the  tear  to  Pity's  self  denied. 

The  intrepid  Swiss,  who  guards  a  foreign  shore, 
Condemned  to  climb  his  mountain-cliffs  no  more, 
If  chance  he  hears  that  song  so  sweet,  so  wild, 
His  heart  would  spring  to  hear  it  when  a  child, 
Melts  at  the  long-lost  scenes  that  round  him  rise, 
And  sinks  a  martyr  to  repentant  sighs. 

Ask  not  if  courts  or  camps  dissolve  the  charm  : 
Say  why  Vespasian  loved  his  Sabine  farm  ; 
Why  great  Navarre,  when  France  and  freedom  bled. 
Sought  the  lone  limits  of  a  forest-shed. 
When  Diocletian's  self-corrected  mind 
The  imperial  fasces  of  a  world  resigned. 
Say  why  we  trace  the  labours  of  his  spade 
In  calm  Salona's  philosophic  shade. 
Say,  when  contentious  Charles  renounced  a  throne, 
To  muse  with  monks  unlettered  and  unknown, 
What  from  his  soul  the  parting  tribute  drew  ? 
What  claimed  the  sorrows  of  a  last  adieu? 


36  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

The  still  retreats  that  soothed  his  tranquil  breast 
Ere  grandeur  dazzled,  and  its  cares  oppressed. 

Undamped  by  time,  the  generous  Instinct  glows 
Far  as  Angola's  sands,  as  Zembla's  snows ; 
Glows  in  the  tiger's  den,  the  serpent's  nest, 
On  every  form  of  varied  life  imprest. 
The  social  tribes  its  choicest  influence  hail : — 
And  when  the  drum  beats  briskly  in  the  gale, 
The  war-worn  courser  charges  at  the  sound. 
And  with  young  vigour  wheels  the  pasture  round. 

Oft  has  the  aged  tenant  of  the  vale 
Leaned  on  his  staff  to  lengthen  out  the  tale ; 
Oft  have  his  lips  the  grateful  tribute  breathed, 
From  sire  to  son  with  pious  zeal  bequeathed. 
When  o'er  the  blasted  heath  the  day  declined, 
And  on  the  scathed  oak  warred  the  winter-wind ; 
When  not  a  distant  taper's  twinkling  ray 
Gleamed  o'er  the  furze  to  light  him  on  his  way ; 
When  not  a  sheep-bell  soothed  his  listening  ear, 
And  the  big  rain-drops  told  the  tempest  near  ; 
Then  did  his  horse  the  homeward  track  descry, 
The  track  that  shunned  his  sad,  inquiring  eye ; 
And  win  each  wavering  purpose  to  relent, 
With  warmth  so  mild,  so  gently  violent, 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  37 

That  his  charmed  hand  the  careless  rein  resigned, 
And  doubts  and  terrors  vanished  from  his  mind. 

Recall  the  traveller,  whose  altered  form 
Has  borne  the  bullet  of  the  mountain-storm  ; 
And  who  will  first  his  fond  impatience  meet  ? 
His  faithful  dog  's  already  at  his  feet ! 
Yes,  tho'  the  porter  spurn  him  from  the  door, 
Tho'  all,  that  knew  him,  know  his  face  no  more, 
His  faithful  dog  shall  tell  his  joy  to  each,  > 

With  that  mute  eloquence  wdiich  passes  speech. — 
And  see,  the  master  but  returns  to  die ! 
Yet  who  shall  bid  the  watchful  servant  fly  ? 
The  blasts  of  heaven,  the  drenching  dews  of  earth. 
The  wanton  insults  of  unfeeling  mirth, 
These,  when  to  guard  Misfortune's  sacred  grave. 
Will  firm  Fidelity  exult  to  brave. 

Led  by  what  chart,  transports  the  timid  dove 
The  wreaths  of  conquest,  or  the  vows  of  love? 
Say,  thro'  the  clouds  what  compass  points  her  flight  ? 
Monarchs  have  gazed,  and  nations  blessed  the  sight. 
Pile  rocks  on  rocks,  bid  woods  and  mountains  rise. 
Eclipse  her  native  shades,  her  native  skies : — 
'Tis  vain !  thro'  Ether's  pathless  wilds  she  goes, 
And  lights  at  last  where  all  her  cares  repose. 


38  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Sweet  bird  I  thy  truth  shall  Harlem's  walls  attest, 
And  unborn  ages  consecrate  thy  nest. 
When,  with  the  silent  energy  of  grief, 
With  looks  that  asked,  yet  dared  not  hope  relief, 
Want  with  her  babes  round  generous  Valour  clung. 
To  wring  the  slow  surrender  from  his  tongue, 
'Twas  thine  to  animate  her  closing  eye  ; 
Alas  !  'twas  thine  perchance  the  first  to  die. 
Crushed  by  her  meagre  hand,  when  welcomed  from 
the  sky. 

Hark  !  the  bee  winds  her  small  but  mellow  horn, 
Blithe  to  salute  the  sunny  smile  of  morn. 
O'er  thymy  downs  she  bends  her  busy  course, 
And  many  a  stream  allures  her  to  its  source. 
'Tis  noon,  'tis  night.     That  eye  so  finely  wrought, 
Beyond  the  search  of  sense,  the  soar  of  thought, 
Now  vainly  asks  the  scenes  she  left  behind  ; 
Its  orb  so  full,  its  vision  so  confined  ! 
Who  guides  the  patient  pilgrim  to  her  cell  ? 
Who  bids  her  soul  with  conscious  triumph  swell  .'' 
With  conscious  truth,  retrace  the  mazy  clue 
Of  summer-scents,  that  charmed  her  as  she  flew  ? 
Hail,  Memory,  hail !  thy  universal  reign 
Guards  the  least  link  of  Being's  glorious  chain. 


THE 


PLEASURES    OE    MEMOEY. 


PART  II. 


Delle  cose  custode  e  dispeusiera. 

Tasso. 


ANALYSIS  OF  THE  SECOND  PART. 

The  Memory  has  hitherto  acted  only  in  subservience 
to  the  senses,  and  so  far  man  is  not  eminently  distin- 
guished from  other  animals  ;  but,  with  respect  to  man, 
she  has  a  higher  province  ;  and  is  often  busily  employed, 
when  excited  by  no  external  cause  whatever.  She 
preserves,  for  his  use,  the  treasures  of  art  and  science, 
history,  and  philosophy.  She  colours  all  the  prospects 
of  life  ;  for  we  can  only  anticipate  the  future,  by  con- 
cluding what  is  possible  from  what  is  past.  On  her 
agency  depends  every  effusion  of  the  Fancy,  who  with 
tlic  boldest  effort  can  only  compound  or  transpose, 
augment  or  diminish  the  materials  which  she  has 
collected  and  still  retains. 

When  the  first  emotions  of  despair  have  subsided,  and 
sorrow  has  softened  into  melancholy,  she  amuses  with 
a  retrospect  of  innocent  pleasures,  and  inspires  that 
noble  confidence  which  results  from  the  consciousness 
of  having  acted  well.  When  sleep  has  suspended  the 
organs  of  sense  from  their  office,  she  not  only  supplies 

6 


42  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

the  mind  with  images,  but  assists  in  their  combination. 
And  even  in  madness  itself,  when  the  soul  is  resigned 
over  to  the  tyranny  of  a  distempered  imagination,  she 
revives  past  perceptions,  and  awakens  that  train  of 
thought  which  was  formerly  most  familiar. 

Nor  are  we  pleased  only  with  a  review  of  the  brighter 
passages  of  life.  Events,  the  most  distressing  in  their 
immediate  consequences,  are  often  cherished  in  remem- 
brance with  a  degree  of  enthusiasm. 

But  the  world  and  its  occupations  give  a  mechanical 
impulse  to  the  passions,  which  is  not  very  favourable 
to  the  indulgence  of  this  feeling.  It  is  in  a  calm  and 
well-regulated  mind  that  the  Memory  is  most  perfect ; 
and  solitude  is  her  best  sphere  of  action.  With  this 
sentiment  is  introduced  a  Tale  illustrative  of  her  influ- 
ence  in  solitude,  sickness,  and  sorrow.  And  the  subject 
having  now  been  considered,  so  far  as  it  relates  to  man 
and  the  animal  world,  the  Poem  concludes  with  a  con- 
jecture that  superior  beings  are  blest  with  a  nobler 
exercise  of  this  faculty. 


THE 


PLEASURES     0  E    MEMORY. 


Sweet  Memory,  wafted  by  thy  gentle  gale, 
Oft  up  the  stream  of  Time  I  turn  my  sail, 
To  view  the  fairy-haunts  of  long-lost  hours, 
Blest  with  far  greener  shades,  far  fresher  flowers. 

Ages  and  climes  remote  to  Thee  impart 
What  charms  in  Genius,  and  refines  in  Art ; 
Thee,  in  whose  hand  the  keys  of  Science  dwell, 
The  pensive  portress  of  her  holy  cell ; 
Whose  constant  vigils  chase  the  chilling  damp 
Oblivion  steals  upon  her  vestal-lamp. 

They  in  their  glorious  course  the  guides  of  Youth, 
Whose  language  breathed  the  eloquence  of  Truth ; 
Whose  life,  beyond  preceptive  wisdom,  taught 
The  great  in  conduct,  and  the  pure  in  thought  ; 
These  still  exist,  by  Thee  to  Fame  consigned. 
Still  speak  and  act,  the  models  of  mankind. 


44  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

From  Thee  gay  Hope  her  airy  colouring  draws  ; 
And  Fancy's  flights  are  subject  to  thy  laws. 
From  Thee  that  bosom-spring  of  rapture  flows, 
Which  only  Virtue,  tranquil  Virtue,  knows. 

When  Joy's  bright  sun  has  shed  his  evening-ray, 
And  Hope's  delusive  meteors  cease  to  play  ; 
When  clouds  on  clouds  the  smiling  prospect  close, 
Still  thro'  the  gloom  thy  star  serenely  glows : 
Like  yon  fair  orb,  she  gilds  the  brow  of  night 
With  the  mild  magic  of  reflected  light. 

The  beauteous  maid,  who  bids  the  world  adieu. 
Oft  of  that  world  will  snatch  a  fond  review  ; 
Oft  at  the  shrine  neglect  her  beads,  to  trace 
Some  social  scene,  some  dear,  familiar  face  : 
And  ere,  with  iron-tongue,  the  vesper-bell 
Bursts  thro'  the  cypress-walk,  the  convent-cell, 
Oft  will  her  warm  and  wayward  heart  revive. 
To  love  and  joy  still  tremblingly  alive  ; 
The  whispered  vow,  the  chaste  caress  prolong. 
Weave  the  light  dance  and  swell  the  choral  song ; 
With  rapt  ear  drink  the  enchanting  serenade, 
And,  as  it  melts  along  the  moonlight-glade, 
To  each  soft  note  return  as  soft  a  sigh, 
And  bless  the  youth  that  bids  her  slumbers  fly. 


ROGERS"    POEMS.  45 

But  not  till  Time  has  calmed  the  ruffled  breast, 
Are  these  fond  dreams  of  happiness  confest. 
Not  till  the  rushing  winds  forget  to  rave. 
Is  Heaven's  sweet  smile  reflected  on  the  wave. 

From  Guinea's  coast  pursue  the  lessening  sail, 
And  catch  the  sounds  that  sadden  every  gale. 
Tell,  if  thou  canst,  the  sum  of  sorrows  there  ; 
Mark  the  fixed  gaze,  the  wild  and  frenzied  glare, 
The  racks  of  thought,  and  freezings  of  despair  ! 
But  pause  not  then — beyond  the  western  wave, 
Go,  see  the  captive  bartered  as  a  slave ! 
Crushed  till  his  high,  heroic  spirit  bleeds. 
And  from  his  nerveless  frame  indignantly  recedes. 

Yet  here,  even  here,  with  pleasures  long  resigned, 
Lo !  Memory  bursts  the  twilight  of  the  mind. 
Her  dear  delusions  soothe  his  sinking  soul. 
When  the  rude  scourge  assumes  its  base  control  ; 
And  o'er  Futurity's  blank  page  diffuse 
The  full  reflection  of  her  vivid  hues. 
'Tis  but  to  die,  and  then,  to  weep  no  more, 
Then  will  he  wake  on  Congo's  distant  shore  ; 
Beneath  his  plantain's  ancient  shade  renew 
The  simple  transports  that  with  freedom  flew ; 


46  ROGERS'POEMS. 

Catch  the  cool  breeze  that  musky  Evening  blows, 

And  qualTthe  palm's  rich  nectar  as  it  glows  ; 

The  oral  tale  of  elder  time  rehearse, 

And  chant  the  rude,  traditionary  verse 

With  those,  the  loved  companions  of  his  youth, 

When  life  was  luxury,  and  friendship  truth. 

Ah !  why  should  Virtue  fear  the  frowns  of  Fate  ? 
Hers  what  no  wealth  can  buy,  no  power  create ! 
A  little  world  of  clear  and  cloudless  day. 
Nor  wrecked  by  storms,  nor  mouldered  by  decay  ; 
A  world,  with  Memory's  ceaseless  sunshine  blest, 
The  home  of  Happiness,  an  honest  breast. 

But  most  we  mark  the  wonders  of  her  reign, 
When  Sleep  has  locked  the  senses  in  her  chain. 
When  sober  Judgment  has  his  throne  resigned, 
She  smiles  away  the  chaos  of  the  mind ; 
And,  as  warm  Fancy's  bright  Elysium  glows. 
From  Her  each  image  springs,  each  colour  flows. 
She  is  the  sacred  guest !  the  immortal  friend  ! 
Oft  seen  o'er  sleeping  Innocence  to  bend. 
In  that  dead  hour  of  night  to  Silence  given. 
Whispering  seraphic  visions  of  her  heaven. 

When  the  blithe  son  of  Savoy,  journeying  round 
With  humble  wares  and  pipe  of  merry  sound, 


ROGERS'   POEMS.  47 

From  his  green  vale  and  sheltered  cabin  hies, 
And  scales  the  Alps  to  visit  foreign  skies ; 
Tho'  far  below  the  forked  lightnings  play, 
And  at  his  feet  the  thunder  dies  away, 
Oft,  in  the  saddle  rudely  rocked  to  sleep. 
While  his  mule  browses  on  the  dizzy  steep, 
With  Memory's  aid,  he  sits  at  home,  and  sees 
His  children  sport  beneath  their  native  trees. 
And  bends  to  hear  their  cherub-voices  call,     , 
O'er  the  loud  fury  of  the  torrent's  fall. 

But  can  her  smile  with  gloomy  Madness  dwell  ? 
Say,  can  she  chase  the  horrors  of  his  cell  ? 
Each  fiery  flight  on  Frenzy's  wing  restrain. 
And  mould  the  coinage  of  the  fevered  brain  ? 

Pass  but  that  grate,  which  scarce  a  gleam  supplies. 
There  in  the  dust  the  wreck  of  Genius  lies  ! 
He,  whose  arresting  hand  divinely  wrought 
Each  bold  conception  in  the  sphere  of  thought  ; 
And  round,  in  colours  of  the  rainbow,  threw 
Forms  ever  fair,  creations  ever  new ! 
But,  as  he  fondly  snatched  the  wreath  of  Fame, 
The  spectre  Poverty  unnerved  his  frame. 
Cold  was  her  grasp,  a  witlicring  scowl  she  wore  ; 
And  Hope's  soft  energies  were  felt  no  more. 


48  ROGERS'    POEMH. 

Yet  still  how  sweet  the  soothings  of  his  art  I 
From  the  rude  wall  what  bright  ideas  start  I 
Even  now  he  claims  the  amaranthine  wreath, . 
With  scenes  that  glow,  with  images  that  breathe  ! 
And  whence  these  scenes,  these  images,  declare. 
Whence  but  from  Her  who  triumphs  o'er  despair  ? 

Awake,  arise  !  with  grateful  fervour  fraught, 
Go,  spring  the  mine  of  elevating  thought. 
He,  who,  thro'  Nature's  various  walk,  surveys 
The  good  and  fair  her  faultless  line  pourtrays ; 
Whose  mind,  profaned  by  no  unhallowed  guest. 
Culls  from  the  crowd  the  purest  and  the  best ; 
May  range,  at  will,  bright  Fancy's  golden  clime, 
Or,  musing,  mount  where  Science  sits  sublime, 
Or  wake  the  Spirit  of  departed  Time. 
Who  acts  thus  wisely,  mark  the  moral  Muse, 
A  blooming  Eden  in  his  life  reviews ! 
So  rich  the  culture,  tho'  so  small  the  space, 
Its  scanty  limits  he  forgets  to  trace. 
But  the  fond  fool,  when  evening  shades  the  sky, 
Turns  but  to  start,  and  gazes  but  to  sigh ! 
The  weary  waste,  that  lengthened  as  he  ran. 
Fades  to  a  blank,  and  dwindles  to  a  span  I 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  49 

Ah  I  who  can  tell  the  triumphs  of  the  mind, 
By  truth  illumined,  and  by  taste  refined  ? 
When  age  has  quenched  the  eye,  and  closed  the  ear. 
Still  nerved  for  action  in  her  native  sphere, 
Oft  will  she  rise — with  searching  glance  pursue 
Some  long-loved  image  vanished  from  her  view  ; 
Dart  thro'  the  deep  recesses  of  the  past. 
O'er  dusky  forms  in  chains  of  slumber  cast ; 
With  giant-grasp  fling  back  the  folds  of  night, 
And  snatch  the  faithless  fugitive  to  light. 
So  thro'  the  grove  the  impatient  mother  flies, 
Each  sunless  glade,  each  secret  pathway  tries  ; 
Till  the  thin  leaves  the  truant  boy  disclose. 
Long  on  the  wood-moss  stretched  in  sweet  repose. 

Nor  yet  to  pleasing  objects  are  confined 
The  silent  feasts  of  the  reflecting  mind. 
Danger  and  death  a  dread  delight  inspire  ; 
And  the  bald  veteran  glows  with  wonted  fire. 
When,  richly  bronzed  by  many  a  summer-sun, 
He  counts  his  scars,  and  tells  what  deeds  were  done. 

Go,  with  old  Thames,  view  Chelsea's  glorious  })ile. 
And  ask  the  shattered  hero,  whence  his  smile .' 
Go,  view  the  splendid  domes  of  Greenwich — Go. 
And  own  what  raptures  from  Reflection  flow. 

7 


50  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Hail,  noblest  structures  imaged  in  the  wave  ! 
A  nation's  grateful  tribute  to  the  brave. 
Hail,  blest  retreats  from  war  and  shipwreck,  hail ! 
That  oft  arrest  the  wondering  stranger's  sail. 
Long  have  ye  heard  the  narratives  of  age, 
The  battle's  havoc,  and  the  tempest's  rage ; 
Long  have  ye  known  Reflection's  genial  ray 
Gild  the  calm  close  of  Valour's  various  day. 

Time's  sombrous  touches  soon  correct  the  piece. 
Mellow  each  tint,  and  bid  each  discord  cease  : 
A  softer  tone  of  light  pervades  the  whole, 
And  steals  a  pensive  languor  o'er  the  soul. 

Hast  thou  thro'  Eden's  wild-wood  vales  pursued 
Each  mountain-scene,  majestically  rude  ; 
To  note  the  sweet  simplicity  of  life. 
Far  from  the  din  of  Folly's  idle  strife ; 
Nor  there  awhile,  with  lifted  eye,  revered 
That  modest  stone  which  pious  Pembroke  reared ; 
Which  still  records,  beyond  the  pencil's  power, 
The  silent  sorrows  of  a  parting  hour  ; 
Still  to  the  musing  pilgrim  points  the  place 
Her  sainted  spirit  most  delights  to  trace  ? 

Thus,  with  the  manly  glow  of  honest  pride, 
O'er  his  dead  son  the  gallant  Ormond  sighed. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  51 

Thus,  thro'  the  gloom  of  Shenstone's  fairy-grove, 
Maria's  urn  still  breathes  the  voice  of  love. 

As  the  stern  grandeur  of  a  Gothic  tower 
Awes  us  less  deeply  in  its  morning-hour, 
Than  when  the  shades  of  Time  serenely  fall 
On  every  broken  arch  and  ivied  wall ; 
The  tender  images  we  love  to  trace. 
Steal  from  each  year  a  melancholy  grace ! 
And  as  the  sparks  of  social  love  expand, 
As  the  heart  opens  in  a  foreign  land  ; 
And,  with  a  brother's  warmth,  a  brother's  smile, 
The  stranger  greets  each  native  of  his  isle ; 
So  scenes  of  life,  when  present  and  confest, 
Stamp  but  their  bolder  features  on  the  breast ; 
Yet  not  an  image,  when  remotely  viewed, 
However  trivial,  and  however  rude, 
But  wins  the  heart,  and  wakes  the  social  sigh, 
With  every  claim  of  close  affinity  ! 

But  these  pure  joys  the  world  can  never  know  ; 
In  gentler  climes  their  silver  currents  flow. 
Oft  at  the  silent,  shadowy  close  of  day. 
When  the  hushed  grove  has  sung  its  parting  lay ; 
When  pensive  Twilight,  in  her  dusky  car, 
Comes  slowly  on  to  meet  the  evening-star; 


52  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Above,  below,  aerial  murmurs  swell, 

From  hanging  wood,  brown  heath,  and  bushy  dell ! 

A  thousand  nameless  rills,  that  shun  the  light. 

Stealing  soft  music  on  the  ear  of  night. 

So  oft  the  finer  movements  of  the  soul. 

That  shun  the  sphere  of  Pleasure's  gay  control, 

In  the  still  shades  of  calm  Seclusion  rise. 

And  breathe  their  sweet,  seraphic  harmonies  I 

Once,  and  domestic  annals  tell  the  time, 
(Preserved  in  Cumbria's  rude,  romantic  clime) 
When  Nature  smiled,  and  o'er  the  landscape  threw 
Her  richest  fragrance,  and  her  brightest  hue, 
A  blithe  and  blooming  Forester  explored 
Those  loftier  scenes  Salvator's  soul  adored  ; 
The  rocky  pass  half  hung  with  shaggy  wood, 
And  the  cleft  oak  flung  boldly  o'er  the  flood  ; 
Nor  shunned  the  track,  unknown  to  human  tread. 
That  downward  to  the  night  of  caverns  led  ; 
Some  ancient  cataract's  deserted  bed. 

High  on  exulting  .wing  the  heath-cock  rose, 
And  blew  his  shrill  blast  o'er  perennial  snows  ; 
Ere  the  rapt  youth,  recoiling  from  the  roar, 
Gazed  on  the  tumbling  tide  of  dread  Lodore ; 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  63 

And  thro'  the  rifted  cliffs,  that  scaled  the  sky, 
Derwent's  clear  mirror  charmed  his  dazzled  eye. 
Each  osier  isle,  inverted  on  the  wave. 
Thro'  morn's  gray  mist  its  melting  colours  gave  ; 
And,  o'er  the  cygnet's  haunt,  the  mantling  grove 
Its  emerald  arch  with  wild  luxuriance  wove. 

Light  as  the  breeze  that  brushed  the  orient  dew, 
From  rock  to  rock  the  young  Adventurer  flew ; 
And  day's  last  sunshine  slept  along  the  shore, 
When  lo,  a  path  the  smile  of  welcome  wore. 
Imbowering  shrubs  with  verdure  veiled  the  sky, 
And  on  the  musk-rose  shed  a  deeper  dye  ; 
Save  when  a  bright  and  momentary  gleam 
Glanced  from  the  white  foam  of  some  sheltered  stream. 

O'er  the  still  lake  the  bell  of  evening  tolled. 
And  on  the  moor  the  shepherd  penned  his  fold  ; 
And  on  the  green  hill's  side  the  meteor  played ; 
When,  hark  !  a  voice  sung  sweetly  thro'  the  shade. 
It  ceased — yet  still  in  Florio's  fancy  sung, 
Still  on  each  note  his  captive  spirit  hung ; 
Till  o'er  the  mead  a  cool,  sequestered  grot 
From  its  rich  roof  a  sparry  lustre  shot. 
A  crystal  water  crossed  the  pebbled  floor. 
And  on  the  front  these  simple  lines  it  bore. 


54  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Hence  away,  nor  dare  intrude  ! 
In  this  secret,  shadowy  ceil 
Musing  Memory  loves  to  dwell, 
With  her  sister  Solitude. 

Far  from  the  busy  world  she  flies, 
To  taste  that  peace  the  world  denies. 
Entranced  she  sits ;  from  youth  to  age. 
Reviewing  Life's  eventful  page  ; 
And  noting,  ere  they  fade  away, 
The  little  lines  of  yesterday. 

Florio  had  gained  a  rude  and  rocky  seat, 
When  lo,  the  Genius  of  this  small  retreat ! 
Fair  was  her  form — but  who  can  hope  to  trace 
The  pensive  softness  of  her  angel-face  ? 
Can  Virgil's  verse,  can  Raphael's  touch  impart 
Those  finer  features  of  the  feeling  heart, 
Those  tend'rer  tints  that  shun  the  careless  eye 
And  in  the  world's  contagious  climate  die  ? 

She  left  the  cave,  nor  marked  the  stranger  there  ; 
Her  pastoral  beauty  and  her  artless  air 
Had  breathed  a  soft  enchantment  o'er  his  soul ! 
In  every  nerve  he  felt  her  blest  control ! 
What  pure  and  white-winged  agents  of  the  sky, 
Who  rule  the  springs  of  sacred  sympathy, 


ROGERS'  POEMS.       '      .55 

Inform  congenial  spirits  when  they  meet  ? 
Sweet  is  their  office,  as  their  natures  sweet ! 

Florio,  with  fearful  joy,  pursued  the  maid, 
Till  thro'  a  vista's  moonlight-chequered  shade, 
Where  the  bat  circled,  and  the  rooks  reposed, 
(Their  wars  suspended,  and  their  councils  closed) 
An  antique  mansion  burst  in  solemn  state, 
A  rich  vine  clustering  round  the  Gothic  gate. 
Nor  paused  he  there.     The  master  of  the  scene 
Saw  his  light  step  imprint  the  dewy  green  ; 
And,  slow-advancing,  hailed  him  as  his  guest, 
Won  by  the  honest  warmth  his  looks  expressed. 
He  wore  the  rustic  manners  of  a  Squire  ; 
Age  had  not  quenched  one  spark  of  manly  fire  ; 
But  giant  Gout  had  bound  him  in  her  chain, 
And  his  heart  panted  for  the  chase  in  vain. 

Yet  here  Remembrance,  sweetly-soothing  Power ! 
Winged  with  delight  Confinement's  lingering  hour. 
The  fox's  brush  still  emulous  to  wear. 
He  scoured  the  county  in  his  elbow-chair  ; 
And,  with  view-halloo,  roused  the  (jreaming  hound 
That  rung,  by  starts,  his  deep-toned  music  round. 

Long  by  the  paddock's  humble  pale  confined, 
His  aged  hunters  coursed  the  viewless  wind  ; 


56  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

And  each,  with  glowing  energy  portrayed, 

The  far-famed  triumphs  of  the  field  displayed  ; 

Usurped  the  canvass  of  the  crowded  hall, 

And  chased  a  line  of  heroes  from  the  wall. 

There  slept  the  horn  each  jocund  echo  knew, 

And  many  a  smile  and  many  a  story  drew ! 

High  o'er  the  hearth  his  forest-trophies  hung. 

And  their  fantastic  branches  wildly  flung. 

How  would  he  dwell  on  the  vast  antlers  there ! 

These  dashed  the  wave,  those  fanned  the  mountain-air. 

All,  as  they  frowned,  unwritten  records  bore 

Of  gallant  feats  and  festivals  of  yore. 

But  why  the  tale  prolong  ? — His  only  child. 
His  darling  Julia  on  the  stranger  smiled. 
Her  little  arts  a  fretful  sire  to  please, 
Her  gentle  gaiety  and  native  ease 
Had  won  his  soul ;  and  rapturous  Fancy  shed 
Her  golden  lights,  and  tints  of  rosy  red. 
But  ah!  few  days  had  passed,  ere  the  bright  vision  fled  ! 

When  evening  tinged  the  lake's  ethereal  blue, 
And  her  deep  shades  irregularly  threw ; 
Their  shifting  sail  dropt  gently  from  the  cove, 
Down  by  St.  Herbert's  consecrated  grove  ; 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  57 

Whence  erst  the  chanted  hymn,  the  tapered  rite 

Amused  the  fisher's  solitary  night ; 

And  still  the  mitred  window,  richly  wreathed, 

A  sacred  calm  through  the  brown  foliage  breathed. 

The  wild  deer,  starting  thro'  the  silent  glade. 
With  fearful  gaze  their  various  course  surveyed. 
High  hung  in  air  the  hoary  goat  reclined, 
His  streaming  beard  the  sport  of  every  wind ; 
And,  while  the  coot  her  jet-wing  loved  to  lave, 
Rocked  on  the  bosom  of  the  sleepless  wave ; 
The  eagle  rushed  from  Skiddaw's  purple  crest, 
A  cloud  still  brooding  o'er  her  giant-nest. 

And  now  the  moon  had  dimmed  with  dewy  ray 
The  few  fine  flushes  of  departing  day. 
O'er  the  wide  water's  deep  serene  she  hung, 
And  her  broad  lights  on  every  mountain  flung ; 
When  lo !  a  sudden  blast  the  vessel  blew. 
And  to  the  surge  consigned  the  little  crew. 
All,  all  escaped — but  ere  the  lover  bore 
His  faint  and  faded  Julia  to  the  shore, 
Her  sense  had  fled ! — Exhausted  by  the  storm, 
A  fatal  trance  hung  o'er  her  pallid  form ; 
Her  closing  eye  a  trembling  lustre  fired  ; 
'Twas  life's  last  spark — it  fluttered  and  expired! 

8 


58  ROCJERS'    POIOMS. 

The  father  strewed  his  white  hairs  in  the  wind, 
Called  on  his  child — nor  lingered  long  behind  : 
And  Florio  lived  to  see  the  willow  wave, 
With  many  an  evening-whisper,  o'er  their  grave. 
Yes,  Florio  lived — and,  still  of  each  possessed, 
The  father  cherished,  and  the  maid  caressed  ! 

For  ever  would  the  fond  enthusiast  rove. 
With  Julia's  spirit,  thro'  the  shadowy  grove ; 
Gaze  with  delight  on  every  scene  she  planned. 
Kiss  every  floweret  planted  by  her  hand. 
Ah!  still  he  traced  her  steps  along  the  glade, 
When  hazy  hues  and  glimmering  lights  betrayed 
Half-viewless  forms  ;  still  listened  as  the  breeze 
Heaved  its  deep  sobs  among  the  aged  trees ; 
And  at  each  pause  her  melting  accents  caught, 
In  sweet  delirium  of  romantic  thought ! 
Dear  was  the  grot  that  shunned  the  blaze  of  day ; 
She  gave  its  spars  to  shoot  a  trembling  ray. 
The  spring,  that  bubbled  from  its  inmost  cell. 
Murmured  of  Julia's  virtues  as  it  fell ; 
And  o'er  the  dripping  moss,  the  fretted  stone, 
In  Florio's  ear  breathed  language  not  its  own. 
Her  charm  around  the  enchantress  Memory  threw, 
A  charm  that  soothes  the  mind,  and  sweetens  too! 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  59 

But  is  Her  Magic  only  felt  below  ? 
Say,  thro'  what  brighter  realms  she  bids  it  flow ; 
To  what  pure  beings,  in  a  nobler  sphere, 
She  yields  delight  but  faintly  imaged  here : 
All  that  till  now  their  rapt  researches  knew, 
Not  called  in  slow  succession  to  review ; 
But,  as  a  landscape  meets  the  eye  of  day. 
At  once  presented  to  their  glad  survey  I 

Each  scene  of  bliss  revealed,  since  chaos  fled, 
And  dawning  light  its  dazzling  glories  spread ; 
Each  chain  of  wonders  that  sublimely  glowed, 
Since  first  Creation's  choral  anthem  flowed, 
Each  ready  flight,  at  Mercy's  call  divine. 
To  distant  worlds  that  undiscovered  shine  ; 
Full  on  her  tablet  flings  its  living  rays, 
And  all,  combined,  with  blest  efl'ulgence  blaze. 

There  thy  bright  train,  immortal  Friendship,  soar; 
No  more  to  part,  to  mingle  tears  no  more  I 
And,  as  the  softening  hand  of  Time  endears 
The  joys  and  sorrows  of  our  infant-years, 
So  there  the  soul,  released  from  human  strife. 
Smiles  at  the  little  cares  and  ills  of  life  ; 
Its  lights  and  shades,  its  sunshine  and  its  showers  ; 
As  at  a  dream  that  charmed  her  vacant  hours  I 


60  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Oft  may  the  spirits  of  the  dead  descend 
To  watch  the  silent  slumbers  of  a  friend  ; 
To  hover  round  his  evening-walk  unseen, 
And  hold  sweet  converse  on  the  dusky  green  ; 
To  hail  the  spot  where  first  their  friendship  grew, 
And  heaven  and  nature  opened  to  their  view ! 
Oft,  when  he  trims  his  cheerful  hearth,  and  sees 
A  smiling  circle  emulous  to  please ; 
There  may  these  gentle  guests  delight  to  dwell, 
And  bless  the  scene  they  loved  in  life  so  well  I 

Oh  thou !  with  whom  my  heart  was  wont  to  share 
From  Reason's  dawn  each  pleasure  and  each  care ; 
With  whom,  alas!  1  fondly  hoped  to  know 
The  humble  walks  of  happiness  below  ; 
If  thy  blest  nature  now  unites  above 
An  angel's  pity  with  a  brother's  love, 
Still  o'er  my  life  preserve  thy  mild  control, 
Correct  my  views,  and  elevate  my  soul ; 
Grant  me  thy  peace  and  purity  of  mind. 
Devout  yet  cheerful,  active  yet  resigned; 
Grant  me,  like  thee,  whose  heart  knew  no  disgui.-r'e. 
Whose  blameless  wishes  never  aimed  to  rise, 
To  meet  the  changes  Time  and  Chance  present, 
With  modest  dignity  and  calm  content. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  61 

When  thy  last  breath,  ere  Nature  sunk  to  rest, 
Thy  meek  submission  to  thy  God  expressed ; 
When  thy  last  look,  ere  thought  and  feeling  fled, 
A  mingled  gleam  of  hope  and  triumph  shed ; 
What  to  thy  soul  its  glad  assurance  gave. 
Its  hope  in  death,  its  triumph  o'er  the  grave?  .? 

The  sweet  Remembrance  of  unblemished  youth, 
The  still  inspiring  voice  of  Innocence  and  Truth ! 

Hail,  Memory,  hail !  in  thy  exhaustless  mine 
From  age  to  age  unnumbered  treasures  shine  ! 
Thought  and  her  shadowy  brood  thy  call  obey, 
And  Place  and  Time  are  subject  to  thy  sway! 
Thy  pleasures  most  we  feel,  when  most  alone ;   ■ 
The  only  pleasures  we  can  call  our  own. 
Lighter  than  air,  Hope's  summer-visions  die, 
If  but  a  fleeting  cloud  obscure  the  sky ; 
It'  but  a  beam  of  sober  Reason  play, 
Lo,  Fancy's  fairy  frost-work  melts  away! 
But  can  the  w'les  of  Art,  the  grasp  of  Power, 
Snatch  the  rich  relics  of  a  well-spent  hour  ? 
These,  when  the  trembling  spirit  wings  her  flight, 
Pour  round  her  path  a  stream  of  living  light ; 
And  gild  those  pure  and  ])crfect  realms  oi"  rest, 
Where  Virtue  triumphs,  and  her  sons  are  blest! 


fit 

I 


NOTES  ON  THE  EIUST  PAM.     • 


p.  26,  1.  7. 
How  oji,  ivlien  purple  evening  tinged  the  ivest, 

Virgil,  in  one  of  his  Eclogues,  describes  a  romantic  attach- 
ment as  conceived  in  such  circumstances ;  and  the  description 
is  so  true  to  nature,  that  we  must  surely  be  indebted  for  it  to 
some  early  recollection.  "  You  were  little  when  I  first  saw 
you.  You  were  with  your  mother  gathering  fruit  in  our  orchard, 
and  I  was  your  guide.  I  was  just  entering  my  thirteenth  year, 
and  just  able  to  reach  the  boughs  from  the  ground." 

So  also  Zappi,  an  Italian  Poet  of  the  last  Century :  "  When 
I  used  to  measure  myself  with  my  goat  and  my  goat  was  the 
tallest,  even  then  I  loved  Clori." 

P.  27,  1.  15. 
Up  springs^  at  every  step,  to  claim  a  tear, 
I  came  to  the  place  of  my  birth,  and  cried,  "  The  friends 


■  * 


64  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

of  my  Youth,   where   are   they?" — And    an   echo   answered, 
''  Where  are  they  ?"     From  an  Arabic  MS. 

P.  30,  I.  13. 

Awake  hut  07ic,  and  lo,  xvhat  myriads  rise  ! 

When  a  traveller,  who  was  surveying  the  ruins  of  Rome, 
expressed  a  desire  to  possess  some  relic  of  its  ancient  grandeur, 
Poussin,  who  attended  him,  stooped  down,  and  gathering  up  a 
handful  of  earth  shining  with  small  grains  of  porphyry,  "  Take 
this  home,"  said  he,  "  for  your  cabinet ;  and  say  boldly,  Questa 
^  Roma  Antica." 

P.  31,  1.  22. 
TJie  churchyard  yews  round  which  his  fathers  sleep  ; 

Every  man,  like  Gulliver  in  Lilliput,  is  fastened  to  some  spot 
of  earth  by  the  thousand  small  threads  which  habit  and  associa- 
tion are  continually  stealing  over  him.  Of  these,  perhaps,  one 
of  the  strongest  is  here  alluded  to. 

When  the  Canadian  Indians  were  once  solicited  to  emigrate, 
"  What !"  they  replied,  "  shall  we  say  to  the  bones  of  our 
fathers,  Arise,  and  go  with  us  into  a  foreign  land  ?" 

P.  32,  1.  7. 
«So,  when  he  Ixreailicd  his  firm  yet  fond  adieu. 
He  wept;  but  the  effort  that  he  made  to  conceal  his  tears, 


ROGERS'POEMS.       .  65 

concurred  with  them  to  do  him  honour :  he  went  to  the  mast- 
head, &c. — See  Cook's  First  Voyage,  book  i.  chap.  16. 

Another  very  affecting  instance  of  local  attachment  is  re- 
lated of  his  fellow-countryman  Potaveri,  who  came  to  Europe 
with  M.  de  Bougainville. — See  Les  Jardins,  chant  ii. 

.    P.  32, 1.15. 

So  Scotia's  Queen,  ^c. 

"  Elle  se  leve  sur  son  lict,  et  se  met  a  contempler  la  France 
encore,  et  tant  qu'elle  peut." — Brantome. 

P.  32, 1.  23. 
Thus  kindred  objects  kindred  thoughts  inspire, 

To  an  accidental  association  may  be  ascribed  some  of  the 
noblest  efforts  of  human  genius.  The  historian  of  the  Decline 
and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire  first  conceived  his  design 
among  the  ruins  of  the  Capitol ;  and  to  the  tones  of  a  Welsh 
harp  are  we  indebted  for  The  Bard  of  Gray. 

P.  33, 1.3.  '       . 

Hence  Jiome-fcU  pleasure,  ^-c. 

Who  can  enough  admire  the  affectionate  attachment  of  Plu- 
tarch, who  thus  concludes  his  enumeration  of  the  advantages 
of  a  great  city  to  men  of  letters  ?  "  As  to  myself,  I  live  in  a 
little  town ;  and  I  choose  to  live  there,  lest  it  should  become 
still  less." — Vit.  Demosth. 

9 


66  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

P.  33, 1.  5. 
For  this  young  Foscari,  ^-c. 

He  was  suspected  of  murder,  and  at  Venice  suspicion  was 
good  evidence.  Neither  the  interest  of  the  Doge,  his  father, 
nor  the  intrepidity  of  conscious  innocence,  which  he  exhibited 
in  the  dungeon  and  on  the  rack,  could  procure  his  acquittal. 
He  was  banished  to  the  island  of  Oandia  for  life. 

But  here  his  resolution  failed  him.  At  such  a  distance  from 
home  he  could  not  live ;  and,  as  it  was  a  criminal  offence  to 
solicit  the  intercession  of  any  foreign  prince,  in  a  fit  of  de- 
spair he  addressed  a  letter  to  the  Duke  of  Milan,  and  intrusted 
it  to  a  wretch  'whose  perfidy,  he  knew,  would  occasion  his 
being  remanded  a  prisoner  to  Venice. 

P.  33,  1.  13. 

And  hence  the  charm  historic  scenes  impart; 

"Whatever  withdraws  us  from  the  power  of  our  senses; 
whatever  makes  the  past,  the  distant,  or  the  future  predominate 
over  the  present,  advances  us  in  the  dignity  of  thinking  beings. 
Far  from  me  and  from  my  friends  be  such  frigid  philosophy  as 
may  conduct  us  indifferent  and  unmoved  over  any  ground 
which  has  been  dignified  by  wisdom,  bravery,  or  virtue.  That 
man  is  little  to  be  envied,  whose  patriotism  would  not  gain 
force  upon  the  plain  of  Marathon,  or  whose  piety  would  not 
grow  warmer  among  the  ruins  of  lona.'" — Johnson. 


ROGERS'   POEMS.  67 

P.  33,  1.  18, 
A7id  watcli  and  tceep  in  Eloisa's  cell. 
The  Paraclete,  founded  by  Abelard,  in  Champagne.     - 

P.  33,  1.  19. 
'  Twas  ever  thus.     Yomig  Ammon,  ivlmi  he  sought 

Alexander,  when  he  crossed  the  Hellespont,  was  in  the 
twenty-second  year  of  his  age ;  and  with  what  feelings  must 
the  Scholar  of  Aristotle  have  approached  the  ground  described 
by  Homer  in  that  Poem  which  had  been  his  delight  from  his 
childhood,  and  which  records  the  achievements  of  Him  from 
whom  he  claimed  his  descent ! 

It  was  his  fancy,  if  we  may  believe  tradition,  to  take  the 
tiller  from  Menoetius,  and  be  himself  the  steersman  during  the 
passage.  It  was  his  fancy  also  to  be  the  first  to  land,  and  to 
land  full-armed. — Arrian,  i.  11. 

P.  34,  1.  1. 
As  71010  at  Virgil's  tomb 

Vows  and  pilgrimages  arc  not  peculiar  to  the  religious 
enthusiast.  Silius  Italicus  performed  annual  ceremonies  on 
the  mountain  of  Posilipo;  and  it  was  there  that  Boccaccio, 
quasi  da  un  divino  eslro  inspirato,  resolved  to  dedicate  his  life 
to  the  Muses. 


68  ROGERS'   POEMS. 

P.  34,  1.  3. 
So  TuLLY  paused,  amid  ilte  wrecks  of  Time, 

When  Cicero  was  quaestor  in  Sicily,  he  discovered  the  tomb 
of  Archimedes  by  its  mathematical  inscription. — Tusc.  Qusest. 
V.  23. 

P.  34,  1.  17. 
Say  vShy  tlie  pensive  widow  laves  to  weep. 

The  influence  of  the  associating  principle  is  finely  exemplified 
in  the  faithful  Penelope,  when  she  sheds  tears  over  the  bow  of 
Ulysses. — Od.  xxi.  55. 

P.  35,  1.  9. 

If  chance  he  Ivears  that  song  so  sweet,  so  wild, 
His  heart  woidd  spring  to  hear  it  lohen  a  child, 

f  The  celebrated  Ranz  des  Vaches ;  "  cet  air  si  cheri  des 
Suisses  (lu'il  fut  defendu  sous  peine  de  mort  de  le  jouer  dans 
leurs  troupes,  parce  qu'il  faisoit  fondre  en  larmes,  deserter  ou 
mourir  ceux  qui  I'entendoient,  tant  il  excitoit  en  eux  I'ardent 
desir  de  revoir  leur  pays." — Rousseau, 

The  maladie  de  pays  is  as  old  as  the  human  heart.  Juve- 
nal's little  cup-bearer 

Suspirat  longo  non  visam  tempore  raatrem, 
Et  casulam,  et  notos  tristis  desiderat  heedos. 

And  the  Argive  in  the  heat  of  battle 

Dulces  moriens  reminiscitur  Argos. 


ROGERS'   POEMS.  69 

Nor  is  it  extinguished  by  any  injuries,  however  cruel  they  may 
be.  Ludlow,  write  as  he  would  over  his  door  at  Vevey,*  was 
still  anxious  to  return  home ;  and  how  striking  is  the  testimony 
of  Camillus,  as  it  is  recorded  by  Livy !  "  Equidem  fatebor 
vobis,"  says  he  in  his  speech  to  the  Roman  people,  "  etsi  minus 
injuriaj  vestras  quam  mesc  calamitatis  meminisse  juvat ;  quum 
abessem,  quotiescunque  patria  in  mentem  veniret,  hoec  omnia 
occurrebant,  colles,  campique,  et  Tiberis,  et  assueta  oculis 
regio,  et  hoc  caelum,  sub  quo  natus  educatusque  essem.  Quae 
vos,  Quirites,  nunc  moveant  potius  caritate  sua,  ut  maneatis 
in  sede  vestra,  quam  postea  quum  reliqueritis  ea,  macerent 
desiderio." — V.  54. 

P.  35,  1.  14. 
Say  ivhy  Vespasian  loved  his  Sabine  farm  ; 

This  emperor,  according  to  Suetonius,  constantly  passed  the 

summer  in  a  small  villa  near  Reate,  where  he  was  born,  and 

to  which  he  would  never  add  any  embellishment;   ne  quid 

■  scilicet  oculorum  consuetudini   deperiret. — Suet,  in  Vit.  Vesp. 

cap.  ii.  . 

A  similar  instance  occurs  in  the  life  of  the  venerable  Perti- 
nax,  as  related  by  J.  Capitolinus.  "  Posteaquam  in  Liguriam 
vcnit,  multis  agris  coemptis,  tabernam  paternam,  manenie  forma 
■priore,  infinitis  ajdificiis  circumdedit." — Hist.  August.  54. 

And  it  is  said  of  Cardinal  Richelieu,  that,  when  he  built  his 

*  Omne  solum  Ibrti  patria  est,  (juia  Patris. 


70  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

magnificent  palace  on  the  site  of  the  old  family  chateau  at 
Richelieu,  he  sacrificed  its  symmetry  to  preserve  the  room  in 
which  he  was  born. — Mem.  dc  Mile,  de  Montpensier,  i.  27. 

An  attachment  of  this  nature  is  generally  the  characteristic 
of  a  benevolent  mind ;  and  a  long  acquaintance  with  the  world 
cannot  always  extinguish  it. 

"  To  a  friend,"  says  John,  Duke  of  Buckingham,  "  I  will 
expose  my  weakness :  I  am  oftener  missing  a  pretty  gallery 
in  the  old  house  I  pulled  down,  than  pleased  with  a  saloon 
which  I  built  in  its  stead,  though  a  thousand  times  better  in 
all  respects." — See  his  Letter  to  the  D.  of  Sh. 

This  is  the  language  of  the  heart,  and  will  remind  the  reader 
of  that  good-humoured  remark  in  one  of  Pope's  letters — ''  I 
should  hardly  care  to  have  an  old  post  pulled  up,  that  I  remem- 
bered ever  since  I  was  a  child." 

The  author  of  Telemachus  has  illustrated  this  subject  with 
equal  fancy  and  feeling,  in  the  Story  of  Alibee  Persan. 

P.  35,  1. 15. 
Why  greaZ  Navarre,  ^c. 

That  amiable  and  accomplished  monarch,  Henry,  the  Fourth 
of  France,  made  an  excursion  from  his  camp,  during  the  long 
siege  of  Laon,  to  dine  at  a  house  in  the  forest  of  Folambray ; 
where  he  had  often  been  regaled,  when  a  boy,  with  fruit,  milk, 
and  new  cheese ;  and  in  revisiting  which  he  promised  himself 
great  pleasure. — Mem.  dc  Sully. 


ROGERS'  POEMS. 


P.  35,  1.  17. 
W/icn  Diocletian's  self -corrected  mind 

Diocletian  retired  into  his  native  province,  and  there  amused 
himself  with  building,  planting,  and  gardening.  His  answer  to 
Maximian  is  deservedly  celebrated.  "  If,"  said  he,  *'  I  could 
show  him  the  cabbages  which  I  have  planted  with  my  own 
hands  at  Salona,  he  would  no  longer  solicit  mc  to  return  to  a 
throne." 

P.  35,  1.  21. 

Say^  when  contentions  Charles,  Sj-c, 

When  the  Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth  had  executed  his  me- 
morable resolution,  and  had  set  out  for  the  monastery  of  Juste, 
he  stopped  a  few  days  at  Ghent  to  indulge  that  tender  and 
pleasant  melancholy,  which  arises  in  the  mind  of  every  man  in 
the  decline  of  life,  on  visiting  the  place  of  his  birth,  and  the 
objects  familiar  to  him  in  his  early  youth. 


P.  35,  1.  22. 

To  muse  ivith  monks,  ^-c. 

Monjes  solitaries  del  glorioso  padre  San  Geronimo,  says 
Sandova. 

In  a  corner  of  the  Convent-garden  there  is  this  inscription. 
En  esta  santa  casa  de  S.  Geronimo  de  Juste  se  retiro  a  acabar 
su  vida  Carlos  V.  Emperador,  &c. — Ponz. 


72  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

P.  36,  1.  21. 
T}ic7i  did  his  Jwrsc  the  homeward  track  descry, 

The  memory  of  the  horse  forms  the  ground- work  of  a 
pleasing  Uttle  romance,  entitled,  "  Lai  du  Palefroi  vair." — See 
Fabliaux  du  XII.  Siecle. 

Ariosto  likewise  introduces  it  in  a  passage  full  of  truth  and 
nature.     When  Bayardo  meets  Angelica  in  the  forest, 

.    .     .    .    Va  mansueto  a  la  Donzella, 


Ch'in  Albracca  il  servia  gia  di  sua  mano. 

Orlando  Furioso,  i.  75. 

P.  38,  1.  1. 
Sweet  bird!  thy  truth  shall  Harlem'' s  walls  attest. 

During  the  siege  of  Harlem,  when  that  city  was  reduced  to 
the  last  extremity,  and  on  the  point  of  opening  its  gates  to  a 
base  and  barbarous  enemy,  a  design  was  formed  to  relieve  it; 
and  the  intelligence  was  conveyed  to  the  citizens  by  a  letter 
which  was  tied  under  the  wing  of  a  pigeon. — Thuanus,  Iv.  5. 

The  same  messenger  was  employed  at  the  siege  of  Mutina, 
as  we  are  informed  by  the  elder  Pliny. — Nat.  Hist.  x.  37. 

P.  38,  1.  11. 
Hark  !  tlie  bee,  ^-c. 

This  little  animal,  from  the  extreme  convexity  of  her  eye, 
cannot  see  many  inches  before  her. 


NOTES  ON  THE  SECOND  PAUT. 


p.  43,  1.  11. 
They  in  their  glorious  course 

True  Glory,  says  one  of  the  Ancients,  is  to  be  acquired  by 
doing  wliat  deserves  to  be  written,  and  writing  what  deserves 
to  be  read ;  and  by  making  the  world  the  happier  and  the  better 
for  our  having  lived  in  it. 

P.  43,  1.  15. 

Tlicse  still  exist,  c^c. 

There  is  a  future  Existence  even  in  this  world,  an  Existence 
in  the  hearts  and  minds  of  those  who  shall  live  after  us.*  It  is 
in  reserve  for  every  man,  however  obscure ;  and  his  portion,  if 
he  is  diligent,  must  be  equal  to  his  desires.  For  in  whose  re- 
membrance can  we  wish  to  hold  a  place,  but  such  as  know,  and 
arc  known  by  us  1  These  are  within  the  sphere  of  our  influence, 
and  among  these  and  their  descendants  we  may  live  for  ever- 
more. 

*  De  tons  lea  bicns  luimains  c'cst  le  seal  <iiic  lii  iiiort  no  nous  pent  ravir, 

—  BOSSUET. 

10 


74  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

It  is  a  slate  of  rewards  and  punishments;  and,  like  that 
revealed  to  us  in  the  Gospel,  has  the  happiest  influence  on  our 
lives.  The  latter  excites  us  to  gain  the  favour  of  God,  the 
former  to  gain  the  love  and  esteem  of  wise  and  good  men ;  and 
both  lead  to  the  same  end ;  for,  in  framing  our  conceptions  of 
the  Deity,  we  only  ascribe  to  Him  exalted  degrees  of  Wisdom 
and  Goodness. 

F.  46,  1.  7. 
Ah,  v.-hy  should  Virtue  fear  thefroivns  of  Fate  7 
The  highest  reward  of  Virtue  is  Virtue  herself,  as  the  severest 
punishment  of  Vice  is  Vice  herself 

P.  48,  1.  1. 

Yet  still  half  siccet  the  soothings  of  Ins  art  ! 

The  astronomer  chalking  his  figures  on  the  wall,  in  Hogarth's 
view  of  Bedlam,  is  an  admirable  exemplification  of  this  idea. — 
See  the  Rake's  Progress,  plate  8. 

P.  48,  1.  21. 
Turns  hut  to  start,  and  gazes  but  to  sigh  ! 

The  following  stanzas*  are  said  to  have  been  written  on  a 
blank  leaf  of  this  Poem.  They  present  so  affecting  a  reverse 
of  the  picture,  that  I  cannot  resist  the  opportunity  of  introducing 
them  here. 

Pleasures  of  Memory  ! — oh  !  supremely  blest, 
And  justly  proud  beyond  a  Poet'.s  praise  ; 

*  By  Ilcury  F.  R.  Soanie  of  Trinity  CoUe^'e,  Cambridge. 


ROGERS'   POEMS.  75 

If  tlie  pure  confines  of  thy  tranquil  brenst 
Contain,  indeed,  tlie  subject  of  thy  lays! 

By  ine  how  envied  ! — for  to  nie, 

The  herald  still  of  misery, 

Memory  makes  her  influence  known 

By  sighs  and  tears,  and  grief  alone  : 
I  greet  lier  as  the  fiend,  to  whom  belong 
Tlie  vulture's  ravening  beak,  the  raven's  funeral  song. 

She  tells  of  time  misspent,  of  comfort  lost. 

Of  fair  occasions  gone  for  ever  by ; 
Of  hopes  too  fondly  nursed,  too  rudely  crossed, 
Of  many  a  cause  to  wish,  yet  fear  to  die  ; 

For  what,  except  the  instinctive  fear 

Lest  she  survive,  detains  me  here. 

When  "all  the  life  of  life"  is  fled'? — 

What,  but  the  deep  inherent  dread, 
Lest  she  beyond  the  grave  resume  her  reign. 
And  realize  the  hell  that  priests  and  beldams  feign  1 


P.  50,  ].  1.3. 
IlasL  thou  iJiro'  Edoi's  icild-icood  vales  jrufsucd 

On  the  road-side  between  Penrith  and  Appleby  there  stands 
a  small  pillar  with  this  inscription  : 

•'  This  pillar  was  erected  in  the  year  165G,  by  Ann,  Countess 
Dowager  of  Pembroke,  &c.  for  a  memorial  of  her  last  parting, 
in  this  place,  with  her  good  and  pious  mother,  Margaret  Coun- 
tess Dowager  of  Cumberland,  on  the  2nd  of  April,  1616;  in 
memory  whereof  she  hath  left  an  annuity  of  4/.  to  be  distributed 
to  the  poor  of  the  parish  of  Brougham,  every  2nd  day  of  April 
for  ever,  upon  the  stone-table  placed  hard  by.     Laus  Deo !" 


76  R  O  G  E  R  S '    P  C)  E  M  S. 

TJic  Eden  is  the  principal  river  of  Cumberland,  and  rises  in 
the  wildest  part  of  Westmoreland. 

P.  50,  1.  24. 
O^cr  his  dead  sou  the  gallant  Ormond  sighed. 

"  I  would  not  exchange  my  dead  son,"  said  he,  "  for  any 
living  son  in  Christendom." — Hume. 

The  same  sentiment  is  inscribed  on  an  urn  at  the  Leasowes. 
"  Heu,  quanto  minus  est  cum  reliquis  versari,  quam  tui  me- 
minisse !" 

P.  56,  1.  23. 

Down  by  St.  Herbert's  cojisecrated  grove ; 

A  small  island  covered  with  trees,  among  which  were  for- 
merly the  ruins  of  a  religious  house. 

P.  57,  1.  17. 
Wlien  lo  !  a  sudden  blast  the  vessel  blew. 

In  a  mountain-lake  the  agitations  are  often  violent  and  mo- 
mentary. The  winds  blow  in  gusts  and  eddies ;  and  the  water 
no  sooner  swells,  than  it  subsides. — See  Bourn's  Hist,  of  West- 
moreland. 

P.  59,  1.  3. 

To  ichat  pure  beifigs,  i7i  a  nobler  S2)herc, 

The  several  degrees  of  angels  may  probably  have  larger 
views,  and  some  of  thcni  be  endowed  with  capacities  able  to 
retain  together,  and  constantly  set  before  them  as  in  one  picture, 
all  their  past  knowledge  at  once. — Locke. 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


THE     ARGUMENT. 

httroduction — Ringing  of  bells  in  a  neighbouring  Village  on  the 
Birth  of  a7i  Heir — General  Reflections  on  Human  Life — The 
Subject  proposed — ChildJwod —  Youth — Manhood — Love — Mar- 
riage— Domestic  Hajjpiness  and  Affliction — War — Peace — 
Civil  Disse?isio?i — Retirement  from  Active  Life — Old  Age  and 
its  Enjoyments — Conclusion. 


^ 


r   LiiJ ., 

OALTF( ' 


K>L'i 


v.:   - 


HUMAN     LIFE. 

The  lark  has  sung  his  carol  in  the  sky ; 

The  bees  have  hummed  their  noontide  harmony. 

Still  in  the  vale  the  village-bells  ring  round, 

Still  in  Llewellyn-hall  the  jests  resound : 

For  now  the  caudle-cup  is  circling  there, 

Now,  glad  at  heart,  the  gossips  breathe  their  prayer, 

And,  crowding,  stop  the  cradle  to  admire 

The  babe,  the  sleeping  image  of  his  sire. 

A  few  short  years — and  then  these  sounds  shall  hail 
The  day  again,  and  gladness  fill  the  vale  ; 
So  soon  the  child  a  youth,  the  youth  a  man. 
Eager  to  run  the  race  his  fathers  ran. 
Then  the  huge  ox  shall  yield  the  broad  sir-loin  ; 
The  ale,  now  brewed,  in  floods  of  amber  shine : 
And,  basking  in  the  chimney's  ample  blaze, 
'Mid  many  a  tale  told  of  his  boyish  days, 


80  ROGERS'    POKMS. 

The  nurse  shall  cry,  of  all  her  ills  beguiled, 

"  'Twas  on  these  knees  he  sate  so  oft  and  smiled." 

And  soon  again  shall  music  swell  the  breeze ; 
Soon,  issuing  forth,  shall  glitter  through  the  trees 
Vestures  of  nuptial  white  ;  and  hymns  be  sung, 
And  violets  scattered  round ;  and  old  and  young. 
In  every  cottage-porch  with  garlands  green, 
Stand  still  to  gaze,  and,  gazing,  bless  the  scene ; 
While,  her  dark  eyes  declining,  by  his  side 
Moves  in  her  virgin-veil  the  gentle  bride. 

And  once,  alas,  nor  in  a  distant  hour, 
Another  voice  shall  come  from  yonder  tower ; 
When  in  dim  chambers  long  black  weeds  are  seen, 
And  weepings  heard  where  only  joy  has  been  ; 
When  by  his  children  borne,  and  from  his  door 
Slowly  departing  to  return  no  more. 
He  rests  in  holv  earth  with  them  that  went  before. 

And  such  is  Human  Life  ;  so  gliding  on, 
It  glimmers  like  a  meteor,  and  is  gone ! 
Yet  is  the  tale,  brief  though  it  be,  as  strange. 
As  full,  methinks,  of  wild  and  wondrous  change. 
As  any  that  the  wandering  tribes  require, 
Stretched  in  the  desert  round  their  evening-fire; 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  81 

As  any  sung  of  old  in  hall  or  bower 

To  minstrel-harps  at  midnight's  witching  hour ! 

Born  in  a  trance,  we  wake,  observe,  inquire ; 
And  the  green  earth,  the  azure  sky  admire. 
Of  £lfin-size — for  ever  as  we  run, 
We  cast  a  longer  shadow  in  the  sun ! 
And  now  a  charm,  and  now  a  grace  is  won ! 
We  grow  in  stature,  and  in  wisdom  too  I 
And,  as  new  scenes,  new  objects  rise  to  view. 
Think  nothing  done  while  aught  remains  to  do. 

Yet,  all  forgot,  how  oft  the  eyelids  close. 
And  from  the  slack  hand  drops  the  gathered  rose ! 
How  oft,  as  dead,  on  the  warm  turf  we  lie. 
While  many  an  emmet  comes  with  curious  eye ; 
And  on  her  nest  the  watchful  wren  sits  by ! 
Nor  do  we  speak  or  move,  or  hear  or  see  ; 
So  like  what  once  we  were,  and  once  again  shall  be ! 

And  say,  how  soon,  where,  blithe  as  innocent, 
The  boy  at  sunrise  carolled  as  he  went, 
An  aged  pilgrim  on  his  staff  shall  lean, 
Tracing  in  vain  the  footsteps  o'er  the  green  ; 
The  man  himself  how  altered,  not  the  scene  ! 
Now  journeying  home  with  nothing  but  the  name  ; 
Way-worn  and  spent,  another  and  the  samel 

11 


82  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

No  eye  observes  the  growth  or  the  decay. 
To-day  we  look  as  we  did  yesterday ; 
And  we  shall  look  to-morrow  as  to-day. 
Yet  while  the  loveliest  smiles  her  locks  grow  gray  I 
And  in  her  glass  could  she  but  see  the  face 
She'll  see  so  soon  amid  another  race, 
How  would  she  shrink  ! — Returning  from  afar, 
After  some  years  of  travel,  some  of  war, 
Within  his  gate  Ulysses  stood  unknown 
Before  a  wife,  a  father,  and  a  son ! 

And  such  is  Human  Life,  the  general  theme. 
Ah,  what  at  best,  what  but  a  longer  dream  ? 
Though  with  such  wild  romantic  wanderings  fraught. 
Such  forms  in  Fancy's  richest  colouring  wrought. 
That,  like  the  visions  of  a  love-sick  brain, 
Who  would  not  sleep  and  dream  them  o'er  again? 

Our  pathway  leads  but  to  a  precipice ; 
And  all  must  follow,  fearful  as  it  is ! 
From  the  first  step  'tis  known  ;  but — No  delay ! 
On,  'tis  decreed.     We  tremble  and  obey. 
A  thousand  ills  beset  us  as  we  go. 
— "  Still,  could  I  shun  the  fatal  gulf" — Ah,  no, 
'Tis  all  in  vain — the  inexorable  Law ! 
Nearer  and  nearer  to  the  brink  we  draw. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  83 

Verdure  springs  up ;  and  fruits  and  flowers  invite, 

And  groves  and  fountains — all  things  that  delight. 

"  Oh,  I  would  stop,  and  linger  if  I  might !"  - 

We  fly ;  no  resting  for  the  foot  we  find  ; 

All  dark  before,  all  desolate  behind! 

At  length  the  brink  appears — but  one  step  more ! 

We  faint — On,  on  ! — we  falter — and  'tis  o'er ! 

Yet  here  high  passions,  high  desires  unfold. 
Prompting  to  noblest  deeds  ;  here  links  of  gold 
Bind  soul  to  soul ;  and  thoughts  divine  inspire 
A  thirst  unquenchable,  a  holy  fire 
That  will  not,  cannot  but  with  life  expire ! 

Now,  seraph-winged,  among  the  stars  we  soar  ; 
Now  distant  ages,  like  a  day,  explore, 
And  judge  the  act,  the  actor  now  no  more ; 
Or,  in  a  thankless  hour  condemned  to  live, 
From  others  claim  what  these  refuse  to  give. 
And  dart,  like  Milton,  an  unerring  eye 
Through  the  dim  curtains  of  Futurity. 

Wealth,  Pleasure,  Ease,  all  thought  of  self  resigned. 
What  will  not  Man  encounter  for  Mankind  ? 
Behold  him  now  unbar  the  prison-door. 
And,  lifting  Guilt,  Contagion  from  the  floor, 
To  Peace  and  Health,  and  Light  and  Life  restore; 


84  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Now  in  riiermopyloe  remain  to  share 
Death — nor  look  back,  nor  turn  a  footstep  there, 
Leaving  his  story  to  the  birds  of  air ; 
And  now  like  Pylades  (in  heaven  they  write 
Names  such  as  his  in  characters  of  light) 
Long  with  his  friend  in  generous  enmity. 
Pleading,  insisting  in  his  place  to  die ! 
Do  what  he  will,  he  cannot  realize 
Half  he  conceives — the  glorious  vision  flies. 
Go  where  he  may,  he  cannot  hope  to  find 
The  truth,  the  beauty  pictured  in  his  mind.  - 
But  if  by  chance  an  object  strike  the  sense. 
The  faintest  shadow  of  that  Excellence, 
Passions,  that  slept,  are  stirring  in  his  frame  ; 
Thoughts  undefined,  feelings  without  a  name ! 
And  some,  not  here  called  forth,  may  slumber  on 
Till  this  vain  pageant  of  a  world  is  gone  ; 
Lying  too  deep  for  things  that  perish  here. 
Waiting  for  life — but  in  a  nobler  sphere ! 

Look  where  he  comes!     Rejoicing  in  his  birth. 
Awhile  he  moves  as  in  a  heaven  on  earth ! 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars — the  land,  the  sea,  the  sky 
To  him  shine  out  as  in  a  galaxy  ! 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  85 

But  soon  'tis  past — the  light  has  died  away ! 
With  him  it  came  (it  was  not  of  the  day) 
And  he  himself  diffused  it,  like  the  stone 
That  sheds  awhile  a  lustre  all  its  own, 
Making  night  beautiful.     'Tis  past,  'tis  gone, 
And  in  his  darkness  as  he  journeys  on. 
Nothing  revives  him  but  the  blessed  ray 
That  now  breaks  in,  nor  ever  knows  decay. 
Sent  from  a  better  world  to  light  him  on  his  way. 

How  great  the  Mystery !     Let  others  sing 
The  circling  Year,  the  promise  of  the  Spring, 
The  Summer's  glory,  and  the  rich  repose 
Of  Autumn,  and  the  Winter's  silvery  snows. 
Man  through  the  changing  scene  let  me  pursue. 
Himself  how  wondrous  in  his  changes  too! 
Not  Man,  the  sullen  savage  in  his  den  ; 
But  Man  called  forth  in  fellowship  with  men  ; 
Schooled  and  trained  up  to  Wisdom  from  his  birth  ; 
God's  noblest  work — His  image  upon  earth  ! 

The  day  arrives,  the  moment  wished  and  feared  ; 
The  child  is  born,  by  many  a  pang  endeared. 
And  now  the  mother's  ear  has  caught  his  cry ; 
Oh  grant  the  cherub  to  her  asking  eye ! 


86  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

He  comes — she  clasps  him.     To  her  bosom  pressed. 
He  drinks  the  bahn  of  life,  and  drops  to  rest. 

Her  by  her  smile  how  soon  the  Stranger  knows ; 
How  soon  by  his  the  glad  discovery  shows ! 
As  to  her  lips  she  lifts  the  lovely  boy, 
What  answering  looks  of  sympathy  and  joy ! 
He  walks,  he  speaks.     In  many  a  broken  word 
His  wants,  his  wishes,  and  his  griefs  are  heard. 
And  ever,  ever  to  her  lap  he  flies. 
When  rosy  Sleep  comes  on  with  sweet  surprise. 
Locked  in  her  arms,  his  arms  across  her  flung, 
(That  name  most  dear  for  ever  on  his  tongue) 
As  with  soft  accents  round  her  neck  he  clings. 
And,  cheek  to  cheek,  her  lulling  song  she  sings. 
How  blest  to  feel  the  beatings  of  his  heart, 
Breathe  his  sweet  breath,  and  kiss  for  kiss  impart ; 
Watch  o'er  his  slumbers  like  the  brooding  dove, 
And,  if  she  can,  exhaust  a  mother's  love ! 

But  soon  a  nobler  task  demands  her  care. 
Apart  she  joins  his  little  hands  in  prayer, 
Telling  of  Him  who  sees  in  secret  there  ! — 
And  now  the  volume  on  her  knee  has  caught 
His  wandering  eyc^now  many  a  written  thought 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  87 

Never  to  die,  with  many  a  lisping  sweet 

His  moving,  murmuring  lips  endeavour  to  repeat. 

Released,  he  chases  the  bright  butterfly ; 
Oh  he  would  follow — follow  through  the  sky ! 
Climbs  the  gaunt  mastiff  slumbering  in  his  chain. 
And  chides  and  buffets,  clinging  by  the  mane  ; 
Then  runs,  and,  kneeling  by  the  fountain-side. 
Sends  his  brave  ship  in  triumph  down  the  tide, 
A  dangerous  voyage ;  or,  if  now  he  can, 
If  now  he  wears  the  habit  of  a  man. 
Flings  off  the  coat  so  long  his  pride  and  pleasure, 
And,  like  a  miser  digging  for  his  treasure, 
His  tiny  spade  in  his  own  garden  plies, 
And  in  green  letters  sees  his  name  arise ! 
Where'er  he  goes,  for  ever  in  her  sight, 
She  looks,  and  looks,  and  still  with  new  delight ! 

Ah  who,  when  fading  of  itself  away. 
Would  cloud  the  sunshine  of  his  little  day! 
Now  is  the  May  of  Life.     Exulting  round, 
Joy  wings  his  feet,  .Joy  lifts  him  from  the  ground ! 
Pointing  to  such,  well  might  Cornelia  say, 
\Vhen  the  rich  casket  shone  in  bright  array, 
"These  are  my  Jewels!"     Well  of  such  as  he. 
When  Jesus  spake,  well  might  his  language  be, 
"  Suffer  these  little  ones  to  come  to  me  !'* 


88  ROGKIIS'    POEMS. 

Thoughtful  by  fits,  he  scans  and  he  reveres 
The  brow  engraven  with  the  Thoughts  of  Years ; 
Close  by  her  side  his  silent  homage  given 
As  to  some  pure  Intelligence  from  Heaven  ; 
His  eyes  cast  downward  with  ingenuous  shame, 
His  conscious  cheeks,  conscious  of  praise  or  blame. 
At  once  lit  up  as  with  a  holy  flame ! 
He  thirsts  for  knowledge,  speaks  but  to  inquire ; 
And  soon  with  tears  relinquished  to  the  Sire, 
Soon  in  his  hand  to  Wisdom's  temple  led. 
Holds  secret  converse  with  the  Mighty  Dead  ; 
Trembles  and  thrills  and  weeps  as  they  inspire. 
Burns  as  they  burn,  and  with  congenial  fire ! 
Like  Her  most  gentle,  most  unfortunate. 
Crowned  but  to  die — who  in  her  chamber  sate 
Musing  with  Plato,  though  the  horn  was  blown, 
And  every  ear  and  every  heart  was  won, 
And  all  in  green  array  were  chasing  down  the  sun ! 

Then  is  the  Age  of  Admiration — Then 
Gods  walk  the  earth,  or  beings  more  than  men ; 
Who  breathe  the  soul  of  Inspiration  round, 
Whose  very  shadows  consecrate  the  ground  I 
Ah,  then  comes  thronging  many  a  wild  desire, 
And  high  imagining  and  thought  of  fire  I 
Then  from  within  a  voice  exclaims  "  Aspire  !" 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  89 

Phantoms,  that  upward  point,  before  him  pass, 
As  in  the  Cave  athwart  the  Wizard's  glass  ; 
They,  that  on  Youth  a  grace,  a  lustre  shed. 
Of  every  Age — the  living  and  the  dead  ! 
Thou,  all-accomplished  Surrey,  thou  art  known ; 
The  flower  of  Knighthood,  nipt  as  soon  as  blown! 
Melting  all  hearts  but  Geraldine's  alone ! 
And,  with  his  beaver  up,  discovering  there 
One  who  loved  less  to  conquer  than  to  spare, 
Lo,  the  Black  Warrior,  he,  who,  battle-spent. 
Bare-headed  served  the  Captive  in  his  tent ! 

Young  B in  the  groves  of  Academe, 

Or  where  Ilyssus  winds  his  whispering  stream  ; 
Or  where  the  wild  bees  swarm  with  ceaseless  hum, 
Dreaming  old  dreams — a  joy  for  years  to  come  ; 
Or  on  the  Rock  within  the  sacred  Fane  ; — 
Scenes  such  as  Miltoin  sought,  but  sought  in  vain  :* 
And  Milton's  self,  (at  that  thrice-honoured  name 
Well  may  we  glow — as  men,  we  share  his  fame) 
And  Milton's  self,  apart  with  beaming  eye. 
Planning  he  knows  not  what — that  shall  not  die ! 

*  He  had  arrived  at  Naples,  and  was  preparing  to  visit  Sicily  and  Greece, 
when,  hearing  of  the  troubles  in  England,  he  thought  it  proper  to  hasten 
home. 

12 


90  ROGERS'   POEMS. 

Oh  in  thy  truth  secure,  thy  virtue  bold, 
Beware  the  poison  in  the  cup  of  gold, 
The  asp  among  the  flowers.     Thy  heart  beats  high, 
As  bright  and  brighter  breaks  the  distant  sky ! 
But  every  step  is  on  enchanted  ground : 
Danger  thou  lov'st,  and  Danger  haunts  thee  round. 

Who  spurs  his  horse  against  the  mountain-side  ; 
Then,  plunging,  slakes  his  fury  in  the  tide  ? 
Draws,  and  cries  ho!  and,  where  the  sunbeams  fall, 
At  his  own  shadow  thrusts  along  the  wall  ? 
Who  dances  without  music  ;  and  anon 
Sings  like  the  lark — then  sighs  as  woe-begone, 
And  folds  his  arms,  and,  where  the  willows  wave, 
Glides  in  the  moonshine  by  a  maiden's  grave  ? 
Come  hither,  boy,  and  clear  thy  open  brow. 
Yon  summer-clouds,  now  like  the  Alps,  and  now 
A  ship,  a  whale,  change  not  so  fast  as  thou. 

He  hears  me  not — Those  sighs  were  from  the  heart. 
Too,  too  well  taught,  he  plays  the  lover's  part. 
He  who  at  masques,  nor  feigning  nor  sincere. 
With  sweet  discourse  would  win  a  lady's  ear, 
Lie  at  her  feet  and  on  her  slipper  swear 
That  none  were  half  so  faultless,  half  so  fair, 


ROGERS'    POEMS,  91 

Now  through  the  forest  hies,  a  stricken  deer, 
A  banished  man,  flying  when  none  are  near  ; 
And  writes  on  every  tree,  and  lingers  long 
Where  most  the  nightingale  repeats  her  song ; 
Where  most  the  nymph,  that  haunts  the  silent  grove. 
Delights  to  syllable  the  names  we  love. 

Two  on  his  steps  attend,  in  motley  clad  ; 
One  woeful-wan,  one  merrier  yet  as  mad ; 
Called  Hope  and  Fear.    Hope  shakes  his  cap  and  bells. 
And  flowers  spring  up  among  the  woodland  dells. 
To  Hope  he  listens,  wandering  without  measure 
Thro'  sun  and  shade,  lost  in  a  trance  of  pleasure  ; 
And,  if  to  Fear  but  for  a  weary  mile, 
Hope  follows  fast  and  wins  him  with  a  smile. 

At  length  he  goes — a  Pilgrim  to  the  Shrine, 
And  for  a  relic  would  a  world  resign ! 
A  glove,  a  shoe-tie,  or  a  flower  let  fall — 
What  though  the  least,  Love  consecrates  them  all ! 
And  now  he  breathes  in  many  a  plaintive  verse ; 
Now  wins  the  dull  ear  of  the  wily  nurse 
At  early  matins  ('twas  at  matin-time 
That  first  he  saw  and  sickened  in  his  prime) 
And  soon  the  Sibyl,  in  her  thirst  for  gold, 
Plays  with  young  hearts  that  will  not  be  controlled. 


92  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

"  Absence  from  Thee — as  self  from  self  it  seems  I" 
Scaled  is  the  garden-wall ;  and  lo,  her  beams 
Silvering  the  east,  the  moon  comes  up,  revealing 
His  well-known  form  along  the  terrace  stealing. 
— Oh,  ere  in  sight  he  came,  'twas  his  to  thrill 
A  heart  that  loved  him,  though  in  secret  still. 
"  Am  I  awake  ?  or  is  it  .  .  .  can  it  be 
"  An  idle  dream  ?  Nightly  it  visits  me  ! 
"  —That  strain,"  she  cries,  "  as  from  the  water  rose. 
"  Now  near  and  nearer  through  the  shade  it  flows  ! — 
"  Now  sinks  departing — sweetest  in  its  close  !" 
No  casement  gleams  ;  no  Juliet,  like  the  day, 
Comes  forth  and  speaks  and  bids  her  lover  stay. 
Still,  like  aerial  music  heard  from  far. 
Nightly  it  rises  with  the  evening  star. 

— "  She  loves  another !     Love  was  in  that  sigh  !" 
On  the  cold  ground  he  throws  himself  to  die. 
Fond  Youth,  beware.     Thy  heart  is  most  deceiving. 
Who  wish  are  fearful ;  who  suspect,  believing, 
— And  soon  her  looks  the  rapturous  truth  avow. 
Lovely  before,  oh,  say  how  lovely  now ! 
She  flies  not,  frowns  not,  though  he  pleads  his  cause  ; 
Nor  yet — nor  yet  her  hand  from  his  withdraws ; 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  93 

But  by  some  secret  Power  surprised,  subdued, 
(Ah  how  resist  ?     And  would  she  if  she  could  ?) 
Falls  on  his  neck  as  half  unconscious  where, 
Glad  to  conceal  her  tears,  her  blushes  there. 

Then  come  those  full  confidings  of  the  past ; 
All  sunshine  now,  where  all  was  overcast. 
Then  do  they  wander  till  the  day  is  gone, 
Lost  in  each  other  ;  and  when  Night  steals  on. 
Covering  them  round,  how  sweet  her  accents  are  ! 
Oh  when  she. turns  and  speaks,  her  voice  is  far, 
Far  above  singing ! — But  soon  nothing  stirs 
To  break  the  silence — Joy  like  his,  like  hers, 
Deals  not  in  words  ;  and  now  the  shadows  close, 
Now  in  the  glimmering,  dying  light  she  grows 
Less  and  less  earthly !     As  departs  the  day, 
All  that  was  mortal  seems  to  melt  away, 
Till,  like  a  gift  resumed  as  soon  as  given, 
She  fades  at  last  into  a  Spirit  from  Heaven ! 

Then  are  they  blest  indeed ;  and  swift  the  hours 
Till  her  young  Sisters  wreathe  her  hair  in  flowers, 
Kindling  her  beauty — while,  unseen,  the  least 
Twitches  her  robe,  then  runs  behind  the  rest, 
Known  by  her  laugh  that  will  not  be  suppressed. 


94  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Then  before  All  they  stand — the  holy  vow 
And  ring  of  gold,  no  fond  illusions  now, 
Bind  her  as  his.     Across  the  threshold  led, 
And  every  tear  kissed  off  as  soon  as  shed, 
His  house  she  enters — there  to  be  a  light 
Shining  within,  when  all  without  is  night ; 
A  guardian-angel  o'er  his  life  presiding, 
Doubling  his  pleasures,  and  his  cares  dividing ; 
Winning  him  back,  when  mingling  in  the  throng, 
From  a  vain  world  we  love,  alas !  too  long, 
To  fireside  happiness,  to  hours  of  ease, 
Blest  with  that  charm,  the  certainty  to  please. 
How  oft  her  eyes  read  his  ;  her  gentle  mind 
To  all  his  wishes,  all  his  thoughts  inclined ; 
Still  subject — ever  on  the  watch  to  borrow 
Mirth  of  his  mirth,  and  sorrow  of  his  sorrow. 
The  soul  of  music  slumbers  in  the  shell. 
Till  waked  and  kindled  by  the  master's  spell ; 
And  feeling  hearts — touch  them  but  rightly — pour 
A  thousand  melodies  unheard  before  ; 

Nor  many  moons  o'er  hill  and  valley  rise 
Ere  to  the  gate  with  nymph-like  step  she  flies, 
And  their  first-born  holds  forth,  their  darling  boy, 
With  smiles  how  sweet,  how  full  of  love  and  joy. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  95 

To  meet  him  coming ;  theirs  through  every  year 

Pure  transports,  such  as  each  to  each  endear ! 

And  laughing  eyes  and  laughing  voices  fill 

Their  home  with  gladness.     She,  when  all  are  still, 

Comes  and  undraws  the  curtain  as  they  lie, 

In  sleep  how  beautiful !     He,  when  the  sky 

Gleams,  and  the  wood  sends  up  its  harmony, 

When,  gathering  round  his  bed,  they  climb  to  share 

His  kisses,  and  with  gentle  violence  there 

Break  in  upon  a  dream  not  half  so  fair, 

Up  to  the  hill-top  leads  their  little  feet ; 

Or  by  the  forest-lodge,  perchance  to  meet 

The  stag-herd  on  its  march,  perchance  to  hear 

The  otter  rustling  in  the  sedgy  mere  ; 

Or  to  the  echo  near  the  Abbot's  tree, 

That  gave  him  back  his  words  of  pleasantry — 

When  the  House  stood,  no  merrier  man  than  he ! 

And,  as  they  wander  with  a  keen  delight. 

If  but  a  leveret  catch  their  quicker  sight 

Down  a  green  alley,  or  a  squirrel  then 

Climb  the  gnarled  oak,  and  look  and  climb  again,   " 

If  but  a  moth  flit  by,  an  acorn  fall. 

He  turns  their  thoughts  to  Him  who  made  them  all ; 


96  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

These  with  unequal  footsteps  following  fast, 
These  clinging  by  his  cloak,  unwilling  to  be  last. 
The  shepherd  on  Tornaro's  misty  brow, 
And  the  swart  seaman,  sailing  far  below, 
Not  undelighted  watch  the  morning  ray 
Purpling  the  orient — till  it  breaks  away, 
And  burns  and  blazes  into  glorious  day ! 
But  happier  still  is  he  who  bends  to  trace 
That  sun,  the  soul,  just  dawning  in  the  face  ; 
The  burst,  the  glow,  the  animating  strife, 
The  thoughts  and  passions  stirring  into  life ; 
The  forming  utterance,  the  inquiring  glance. 
The  giant  waking  from  his  tenfold  trance. 
Till  up  he  starts  as  conscious  whence  he  came. 
And  all  is  light  within  the  trembling  frame ! 

What  then  a  Father's  feelings  ?     Joy  and  Fear 
In  turn  prevail,  Joy  most;  and  through  the  year 
Tempering  the  ardent,  urging  night  and  day 
Him  who  shrinks  back  or  wanders  from  the  way, 
Praising  each  highly — from  a  wish  to  raise 
Their  merits  to  the  level  of  his  Praise, 
Onward  in  their  observing  sight  he  moves, 
Fearful  of  wrong,  in  awe  of  whom  he  loves  ! 


Juiii  K  A  U   1 
UNIVEKSITY  OF 


nATJFOI^NlA. 


7 


R  O  G  E  R  S  '    P  O  E  M  S.  97 

Their  sacred  presence  who  shall  dare  profane  ?  ;• 

Who,  when  He  slumbers,  hope  to  fix  a  stain  ? 

He  lives  a  model  in  his  life  to  show, 

That,  when  he  dies  and  through  the  world  they  go, 

Some  men  may  pause  and  say,  when  some  admire, 

"  They  are  his  sons,  and  worthy  of  their  sire  !" 

But  man  is  born  to  suffer.     On  the  door 
Sickness  has  set  her  mark  ;  and  now  no  more 
Laughter  within  we  hear,  or  wood-notes  wild 
As  of  a  mother  singing  to  her  child. 
All  now  in  anguish  from  that  room  retire, 
Where  a  young  cheek  glows  with  consuming  fire, 
And  Innocence  breathes  contagion — all  but  one, 
But  she  who  gave  it  birth — from  her  alone 
The  medicine-cup  is  taken.     Through  the  night, 
And  through  the  day,  that  with  its  dreary  light 
Comes  unregarded,  she  sits  silent  by. 
Watching  the  changes  with  her  anxious  eye : 
While  they  without,  listening  below,  above, 
(Who  but  in  sorrow  know  how  much  they  love  ?) 
From  every  little  noise  catch  hope  and  fear. 
Exchanging  still,  still  as  they  turn  to  hear, 
Whispers  and  sighs,  and  smiles  all  tenderness, 
That  would  in  vain  the  starting  tear  repress. 

13 


98  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Such  grief  was  ours — it  seems  but  yesterday — 
When  in  thy  prime,  wishing  so  much  to  stay, 
*Twas  thine,  Maria,  thine  without  a  sigh 
At  midnight  in  a  Sister's  arms  to  die ! 
Oh  thou  wert  lovely — lovely  was  thy  frame, 
And  pure  thy  spirit  as  from  Heaven  it  came  ! 
And,  when  recalled  to  join  the  blest  above. 
Thou  diedst  a  victim  to  exceeding  love, 
Nursing  the  young  to  health.     In  happier  hours. 
When  idle  Fancy  wove  luxuriant  flowers, 
Once  in  thy  mirth  thou  bad'st  me  write  on  thee ; 
And  now  I  write — what  thou  shalt  never  see ! 

At  length  the  Father,  vain  his  power  to  save, 
Follows  his  child  in  silence  to  the  grave, 
(That  child  how  cherished,  whom  he  would  not  give, 
Sleeping  the  sleep  of  death,  for  All  that  live ;) 
Takes  a  last  look,  when,  not  unheard,  the  spade 
Scatters  the  earth  as  "  dust  to  dust"  is  said, 
Takes  a  last  look  and  goes  ;  his  best  relief 
Consoling  others  in  that  hour  of  grief. 
And  with  sweet  tears  and  gentle  words  infusing 
The  holy  calm  that  leads  to  heavenly  musing. 

But  hark,  the  din  of  arms  !  no  time  for  sorrow. 
To  horse,  to  horse!     A  day  of  blood  to-morrow! 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  99 

One  parting  pang,  and  then — and  then  I  fly, 
Fly  to  the  field,  to  triumph — or  to  die ! — 
He  goes,  and  Night  conies  as  it  never  came  ! 
With  shrieks  of  horror  I — and  a  vault  of  flame  ! 
And  lo !  when  morning  mocks  the  desolate, 
Red  runs  the  river  by  ;  and  at  the  gate 
Breathless  a  horse  without  his  rider  stands  ! 
But  hush  !  .  .  a  shout  from  the  victorious  bands  ! 
And  oh  the  smiles  and  tears,  a  sire  restored ! 
One  wears  his  helm,  one  buckles  on  his  sword ; 
One  hangs  the  wall  with  laurel-leaves,  and  all 
Spring  to  prepare  the  soldier's  festival ; 
While  She  best-loved,  till  then  forsaken  never, 
Clings  round  his  neck  as  she  would  cling  for  ever ! 

Such  golden  deeds  lead  on  to  golden  days. 
Days  of  domestic  peace — by  him  who  plays 
On  the  great  stage  how  uneventful  thought  ; 
Yet  with  a  thousand  busy  projects  fraught, 
A  thousand  incidents  that  stir  the  mind 
To  pleasure,  such  as  leaves  no  sting  behind ! 
Such  as  the  heart  delights  in — and  records 
Within  how  silently — in  more  than  words  I 
A  Holiday — the  frugal  banquet  spread 
On  the  fresh  herbage  near  the  fountain-head 


100  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

With  quips  and  cranks  —  what   time  the  wood-lark 

there 
Scatters  her  loose  notes  on  the  sultry  air, 
What  time  the  king-fisher  sits  perched  below, 
Where,  silver-bright,  the  water-lilies  blow  : — 
A  Wake — the  booths  whitening  the  village-green, 
Where  Punch  and  Scaramouch  aloft  are  seen  ; 
Sign  beyond  sign  in  close  array  unfurled, 
Picturing  at  large  the  wonders  of  the  world  ; 
And  far  and  wide,  over  the  vicar's  pale. 
Black  hoods  and  scarlet  crossing  hill  and  dale, 
All,  all  abroad,  and  music  in  the  gale : — 
A  Wedding-dance — a  dance  into  the  night 
On  the  barn-floor,  when  maiden-feet  are  light ; 
When  the  young  bride  receives  the  promised  dower, 
And  flowers  are  flung,  herself  a  fairer  flower : — 
A  morning-visit  to  the  poor  man's  shed, 
(Who  would  be  rich  while  One  was  wanting  bread?) 
When  all  are  emulous  to  bring  relief. 
And  tears  are  falling  fast — but  not  for  grief: — 
A  Walk  in  Spring — Grattan,  like  those  with  thee 
By  the  heath-side  (who  had  not  envied  me  ?) 
When  the  sweet  limes,  so  full  of  bees  in  June, 
Led  us  to  meet  beneath  their  boughs  at  noon  ; 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  101 

And  thou  didst  say  which  of  the  Great  and  Wise, 
Could  they  but  hear  and  at  thy  bidding  rise, 
Thou  wouldst  call  up  and  question. 

Graver  things 
Come  in  their  turn.     Morning,  and  Evening,  brings 
Its  holy  office  ;  and  the  sabbath-bell, 
That  over  wood  and  wild  and  mountain-dell 
Wanders  so  far,  chasing  all  thoughts  unholy 
With  sounds  most  musical,  most  melancholy, 
Not  on  his  ear  is  lost.     Then  he  pursues 
The  pathway  leading  through  the  aged  yews. 
Nor  unattended  ;  and,  when  all  are  there. 
Pours  out  his  spirit  in  the  House  of  Prayer, 
That  House  with  many  a  funeral-garland  hung* 
Of  virgin-white — memorials  of  the  young, 
The  last  yet  fresh  when  marriage-chimes  were  ringing, 
And  hope  and  joy  in  other  hearts  were  springing ; 
That  House,  where  Age  led  in  by  Filial  Love, 
Their  looks  composed,  their  thoughts  on  things  above, 

The  world  forgot,  or  all  its  wrongs  forgiven 

Who  would  not  say  they  trod  the  path  to  Heaven  ? 

Nor  at  the  fragrant  hour — at  early  dawn — 
Under  the  elm-tree  on  his  level  lawn, 

*  A  custom  in  somo  of  our  country-cluuxhos. 


102  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Or  in  his  porch  is  he  less  duly  found, 
When  they  that  cry  for  Justice  gather  round, 
And  in  that  cry  her  sacred  voice  is  drowned  ; 
His  then  to  hear  and  weigh  and  arbitrate, 
Like  Alfred  judging  at  his  palace-gate. 
Healed  at  his  touch,  the  wounds  of  discord  close  ; 
And  they  return  as  friends,  that  came  as  foes. 

Thus,  while  the  world  but  claims  its  proper  part, 
Oft  in  the  head  but  never  in  the  heart, 
His  life  steals  on  ;  within  his  quiet  dwelling 
That  homefelt  joy  all  other  joys  excelling. 
Sick  of  the  crowd,  when  enters  he — nor  then 
Forgets  the  cold  indifference  of  men  ? 

Soon  through  the  gadding  vine  the  sun  looks  in, 
And  gentle  hands  the  breakfast-rite  begin. 
Then  the  bright  kettle  sings  its  matin-song. 
Then  fragrant  clouds  of  Mocha  and  Souchong 
Blend  as  they  rise  ;  and  (while  without  are  seen, 
Sure  of  their  meal,  the  small  birds  on  the  green  ; 
And  in  from  far  a  schoolboy's  letter  flies, 
Flushing  the  sister's  cheek  with  glad  surprise) 
That  sheet  unfolds  (who  reads,  that  reads  it  not  ?) 
Born  with  the  day  and  with  the  day  forgot ; 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  .    103 

Its  ample  page  various  as  human  life, 

The  pomp,  the  woe,  the  bustle,  and  the  strife ! 

But  nothing  lasts.     In  Autumn  at  his  plough 
Met  and  solicited,  behold  him  now 
Leaving  that  humbler  sphere  his  fathers  knew. 
The  sphere  that  Wisdom  loves,  and  Virtue  too  ; 
They  who  subsist  not  on  the  vain  applause 
Misjudging  man  now  gives  and  now  withdraws' 

'Twas  morn — the  sky-lark  o'er  the  furrow  sung 
As  from  his  lips  the  slow  consent  was  wrung ; 
As  from  the  glebe  his  fathers  tilled  of  old, 
The  plough  they  guided  in  an  age  of  gold, 
Down  by  the  beech-wood  side  he  turned  away  : — 
And  now  behold  him  in  an  evil  day 
Serving  the  State  again — not  as  before, 
Not  foot  to  foot,  the  war-whoop  at  his  door, 
But  in  the  Senate  ;  and  (though  round  him  fly 
The  jest,  the  sneer,  the  subtle  sophistry,) 
With  honest  dignity,  with  manly  sense, 
And  every  charm  of  natural  eloquence. 
Like  Hampden  struggling  in  his  Country's  cause, 
The  first,  the  foremost  to  obey  the  laws, 
The  last  to  brook  oppression.     On  he  moves. 
Careless  of  blame  while  his  own  heart  approves, 


104  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Careless  of  ruin — ("  For  the  general  good 
'Tis  not  the  first  time  I  shall  shed  my  blood.") 
On  thro'  that  gate  misnamed,  thro'  which  before 
Went  Sidney,  Russell,  Raleigh,  Cranmer,  More, 
On  into  twilight  within  walls  of  stone. 
Then  to  the  place  of  trial ;  and  alone, 
Alone  before  his  judges  in  array 
Stands  for  his  life :  there,  on  that  awful  day, 
Counsel  of  friends — all  human  help  denied — 
All  but  from  her  who  sits  the  pen  to  guide. 
Like  that  sweet  Saint  who  sat  by  Russell's  side 
Under  the  Judgment-seat. 

But  guilty  men 
Triumph  not  always.     To  his  hearth  again. 
Again  with  honour  to  his  hearth  restored, 
Lo,  in  the  accustomed  chair  and  at  the  board. 
Thrice  greeting  those  who  most  withdraw  their  claim, 
(The  lowliest  servant  calling  by  his  name) 
He  reads  thanksgiving  in  the  eyes  of  all. 
All  met  as  at  a  holy  festival ! 
— On  the  day  destined  for  his  funeral ! 
Lo,  there  the  Friend,  who,  entering  where  he  lay, 
Breathed  in  his  drowsy  ear  "  Away,  away ! 
"  Take  thou  my  cloak — Nay.  start  not,  but  obey — 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  T05 

"  Take  it  and  leave  me."     And  the  blushing  Maid, 
Who  thro"  the  streets  as  thro'  a  desert  strayed ; 
And,  when  her  dear,  dear  Father  passed  along, 
Would    not    be    held  —  but    bursting   through    the 

throng, 
Halberd  and  battle-axe — kissed  him  o'er  and  o'er  ; 
Then  turned  and  went — then  sought  him  as  before, 
Believing  she  should  see  his  face  no  more ! 
And  oh,  how  changed  at  once — no  heroine  here, 
But  a  weak  woman  worn  with  grief  and  fear. 
Her  darling  Mother  !     'Twas  but  now  she  smiled  ; 
And  now  she  weeps  upon  her  weeping  child ! 
— But  who  sits  by,  her  only  wish  below 
At  length  fulfilled — and  now  prepared  to  go  ? 
His  hands  on  hers — as  through  the  mists  of  night, 
She  gazes  on  him  with  imperfect  sight ; 
Her  glory  now,  as  ever  her  delight ! 
To  her,  methinks,  a  second  Youth  is  given  ; 
The  light  upon  her  face  a  light  from  heaven  ! 

An  hour  like  this  is  worth  a  thousand  passed 
In  pomp  or  ease — 'Tis  present  to  the  last ! 
Years  glide  away  untold — 'Tis  still  the  same  ! 
As  fresh,  as  fair  as  on  the  day  it  came  ! 

14 


106  ROGERS'    POEMS, 

And  now  once  more  where  most  he  loved  to  be, 
In  his  own  fields — breathing  tranquillity — 
We  hail  him — not  less  happy,  Fox,  than  thee ! 
Thee  at  St.  Anne's  so  soon  of  Care  beguiled, 
Playful,  sincere,  and  artless  as  a  child ! 
Thee,  who  wouldst  watch  a  bird's  nest  on  the  spray. 
Through  the  green  leaves  exploring,  day  by  day. 
How  oft  from  grove  to  grove,  from  seat  to  seat, 
With  thee  conversing  in  thy  loved  retreat, 
I  saw  the  sun  go  down  I — Ah,  then  'twas  thine 
Ne'er  to  forget  some  volume  half  divine, 
Shakspeare's  or  Dryden's — thro'  the  chequered  shade 
Borne  in  thy  hand  behind  thee  as  we  strayed  ; 
And  where  we  sate  (and  many  a  halt  we  made) 
To  read  there  with  a  fervour  all  thy  own, 
And  in  thy  grand  and  melancholy  tone. 
Some  splendid  passage  not  to  thee  unknown, 
Fit  theme  for  long  discourse — Thy  bell  has  tolled  ! 
— But  in  thy  place  among  us  we  behold 
One  who  resembles  thee. 

'Tis  the  sixth  hour. 
The  village-clock  strikes  from  the  distant  tower. 
The  ploughman  leaves  the  field  ;  the  traveller  hears, 
And  to  the  inn  spurs  forward.     Nature  wears 


ROGJ^RS'    POEMS.  107 

Her  sweetest  smile  ;  the  day-star  in  the  west 
Yet  hovering,  and  the  thistle's  down  at  rest. 

And  such,  his  lahour  done,  the  calm  He  knows,* 
Whose  footsteps  we  have  followed.     Round  him  glows 
An  atmosphere  that  brightens  to  the  last ; 
The  light,  that  shines,  reflected  from  the  Past, 
— And  from  the  Future  too !     Active  in  Thought 
Among  old  books,  old  friends ;  and  not  unsought 
By  the  wise  stranger — in  his  morning-hours. 
When  gentle  airs  stir  the  fresh-blowing  flowers. 
He  muses,  turning  up  the  idle  weed ; 
Or  prunes  or  grafts,  or  in  the  yellow  mead 
Watches  his  bees  at  hiving-time  ;t  and  now. 
The  ladder  resting  on  the  orchard-bough. 
Culls  the  delicious  fruit  that  hangs  in  air, 
The  purple  plum,  green  fig,  or  golden  pear, 
'Mid  sparkling  eyes,  and  hands  uplifted  there  ; 

At  night,  when  all,  assembling  round  the  fire, 
Closer  and  closer  draw  till  they  retire, 

*  At  ilia  quanti  sunt,  animnm  tanquam  emeritis  stipendiis  libiiliiiis,  am- 
Ijitionis,  contcntionis,  inimicitiarum,  cupiditatum  omnium,  secum  esse, 
secumquc  (ut  dicitur)  vivcre? — Cic.  De  Sencctutc. 

f  Ilinc  ubi  jam  emissum  caveis  ad  sidera  coeli 
Narc  per  rostatem  liquidam  suspexcris  agmen, 
Contemplator. — Virg. 


108  ROGERS'   POEMS. 

A  tale  is  told  of  India  or  Japan, 
Of  merchants  from  Golcond  or  Astracan, 
What  time  wild  Nature  revelled  unrestrained, 
And  Sinbad  travelled  and  the  Caliphs  reigned  :- 
Of  Knights  renowned  from  holy  Palestine, 
And  Minstrels,  such  as  swept  the  lyre  divine. 
When  Blondel  came,  and  Richard*  in  his  Cell 
Heard,  as  he  lay,  the  song  he  knew  so  well : — 
Of  some  Norwegian,  while  the  icy  gale 
Rings  in  her  shrouds  and  beats  her  iron-sail, 
Among  the  shining  Alps  of  Polar  seas 
Immoveable — for  ever  there  to  freeze  ! 
Or  some  great  Caravan,  from  well  to  well 
Winding  as  darkness  on  the  desert  fell. 
In  their  long  march,  such  as  the  Prophet  bids. 
To  Mecca  from  the  Land  of  Pyramids, 
And  in  an  instant  lost — a  hollow  wave 
Of  burning  sand  their  everlasting  grave ! — 
Now  the  scene  shifts  to  Venice — to  a  square 
Glittering  with  light,  all  nations  masking  there. 


*  Richard  the  First.  For  the  romantic  story  here  alluded  to,  we  are 
indebted  to  the  Frencli  Chroniclers. — See  Fauciiet.  Rccuoil  de  rOriginc 
de  la  Langue  et  Poesic  Fr. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  109' 

With  light  reflected  on  the  tremulous  tide, 

Where  gondolas  in  gay  confusion  glide, 

Answering  the  jest,  the  song  on  every  side  ; 

To  Naples  next — and  at  the  crowded  gate, 

Where  Grief  and  Fear  and  wild  Amazement  wait, 

Lo,  on  his  back  a  Son  brings  in  his  Sire, 

Vesuvius  blazing  like  a  World  on  fire ! — 

Then,  at  a  sign  that  never  was  forgot, 

A  strain  breaks  forth  (who  hears  and  loves  it  not  ?) 

From  harp  or  organ!     'Tis  at  parting  given. 

That  in  their  slumbers  they  may  dream  of  Heaven  ; 

Young  voices  mingling,  as  it  floats  along. 

In  Tuscan  air  or  Handel's  sacred  song  ! 

And  She  inspires,  whose  beauty  shines  in  all ; 
So  soon  to  weave  a  daughter's  coronal, 
And  at  the  nuptial  rite  smile  through  her  tears  ; — 
So  soon  to  hover  round  her  full  of  fears. 
And  with  assurance  sweet  her  soul  revive 
In  childbirth — when  a  mother's  love  is  most  alive ! 

No,  'tis  not  here  that  Solitude  is  known. 
Through  the  wide  world  he  only  is  alone 
Who  lives  not  for  another.     Come  what  will, 
The  generous  man  has  his  companion  .still  ; 


no  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

The  cricket  on  his  hearth ;  the  buzzing  fly, 
That  skims  his  roof,  or,  be  his  roof  the  sky, 
Still  with  its  note  of  gladness  passes  by  : 
And,  in  an  iron  cage  condemned  to  dwell, 
The  cage  that  stands  within  the  dungeon-cell, 
He  feeds  his  spider — happier  at  the  worst 
Than  he  at  large  who  in  himself  is  curst ! 
O  thou  all-eloquent,  whose  mighty  mind 
Streams  from  the  depth  of  ages  on  mankind, 
Streams  like  the  day — who,  angel-like,  hast  shed 
Thy  full  effulgence  on  the  hoary  head, 
Speaking  in  Cato's  venerable  voice, 
"  Look  up,  and  faint  not — faint  not,  but  rejoice  !" 
From  thy  Elysium  guide  him.     Age  has  now 
Stamped  with  its  signet  that  ingenuous  brow : 
And,  'mid  his  old  hereditary  trees, 
Trees  he  has  climbed  so  oft,  he  sits  and  sees 
His  children's  children  playing  round  his  knees  : 
Then  happiest,  youngest,  when  the  quoit  is  flung. 
When  side  by  side  the  archers'  bows  are  strung ; 
His  to  prescribe  the  place,  adjudge  the  prize, 
Envying  no  more  the  young  their  energies 
Than  they  an  old  man  when  his  words  are  wise ; 
His  a  delight  how  pure — without  alloy ; 
Strong  in  their  strength,  rejoicing  in  their  joy  I 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  Ill 

Now  in  their  turn  assisting,  they  repay 
The  anxious  cares  of  many  and  many  a  day  ; 
And  now  by  those  he  loves  relieved,  restored, 
His  very  wants  and  weaknesses  afford 
A  feeling  of  enjoyment.     In  his  walks, 
Leaning  on  them,  how  oft  he  stops  and  talks, 
While  they  look  up !     Their  questions,  their  replies. 
Fresh  as  the  welling  waters,  round  him  rise. 
Gladdening  his  spirit :  and,  his  theme  the  past. 
How  eloquent  he  is  !     His  thoughts  flow  fast ; 
And,  while  his  heart  (oh,  can  the  heart  grow  old  ? 
False  are  the  tales  that  in  the  World  are  told!) 
Swells  in  his  voice,  he  knows  not  where  to  end ; 
Like  one  discoursing  of  an  absent  friend. 

But  there  are  moments  which  he  calls  his  own.    • 
Then,  never  less  alone  than  when  alone. 
Those  that  he  loved  so  long  and  sees  no  more, 
Loved  and  still  loves — not  dead — but  gone  before, 
He  gathers  round  him  ;  and  revives  at  will 
Scenes  in  his  life — that  breathe  enchantment  still — 
That  come  not  now  at  dreary  intervals — 
But  where  a  light  as  from  the  Blessed  falls, 
A  light  such  guests  bring  ever — pure  and  holy — 
Lapping  the  soul  in  sweetest  melancholy ! 


112  ROC.  ERS'    POEMS. 

— Ah  then  less  willing  (nor  the  choice  condemn) 
To  live  with  others  than  to  think  on  them  I 

And  now  behold  him  up  the  hill  ascending, 
Memory  and  Hope  like  evening-stars  attending ; 
Sustained,  excited,  till  his  course  is  run, 
By  deeds  of  virtue  done  or  to  be  done. 
When  on  his  couch  he  sinks  at  length  to  rest, 
Those  by  his  counsel  saved,  his  power  redressed. 
Those  by  the  World  shunned  ever  as  unblest. 
At  whom  the  rich  man's  dog  growls  from  the  gate. 
But  whom  he  sought  out,  sitting  desolate. 
Come  and  stand  round — the  widow  with  her  child, 
As  when  she  first  forgot  her  tears  and  smiled  ! 
They,  who  watch  by  him,  see  not ;  but  he  sees. 
Sees  and  exults — Were  ever  dreams  like  these  ? 
They,  who  watch  by  him,  hear  not ;  but  he  hears, 
And  Earth  recedes,  and  Heaven  itself  appears  ! 

'Tis  past !     That  hand  we  grasped,  alas,  in  vain 
Nor  shall  we  look  upon  his  face  again ! 
But  to  his  closing  eyes,  for  all  were  there, 
Nothing  was  wanting ;  and,  through  many  a  year 
We  shall  remember  with  a  fond  delight 
The  words  so  precious  which  we  heard  to-night ; 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  113 

His  parting,  though  awhile  our  sorrow  flows, 
Like  setting  suns  or  music  at  the  close  ! 

Then  was  the  drama  ended.     Not  till  then, 
So  full  of  chance  and  change  the  lives  of  men. 
Could  we  pronounce  him  happy.     Then  secure 
From  pain,  from  grief,  and  all  that  we  endure, 
He  slept  in  peace — say  rather  spared  to  Heaven, 
Upborne  from  Earth  by  Him  to  whom  'tis  given 
In  his  right  hand  to  hold  the  golden  key 
That  opes  the  portals  of  Eternity. 
— When  by  a  good  man's  grave  I  muse  alone, 
Methinks  an  Angel  sits  upon  the  stone  ; 
Like  those  of  old,  on  that  thrice-hallowed  night, 
Who  sate  and  watched  in  raiment  heavenly  bright ; 
And,  with  a  voice  inspiring  joy  not  fear, 
Says,  pointing  upward,  "  Know,  He  is  not  here !" 

But  now  'tis  time  to  go  ;  the  day  is  spent ; 
And  stars  are  kindling  in  the  firmament, 
To  us  how  silent — though  like  ours  perchance 
Busy  and  full  of  life  and  circumstance  ; 
Where  some  the  paths  of  Wealth  and  Power  pursue, 
Of  Pleasure  some,  of  Happiness  a  i'ew  ; 
And,  as  the  sun  goes  round — a  sun  not  ours — 
While  from  her  lap  another  Nature  showers 

15 


114  ROGERS'    POEMS, 

Gifts  of  her  own,  some  from  the  crowd  retire, 
Think  on  themselves,  within,  without  inquire  ; 
At  distance  dwell  on  all  that  passes  there, 
All  that  their  world  reveals  of  good  and  fair  ; 
And,  as  they  wander,  picturing  things,  like  me, 
Not  as  they  are  but  as  they  ought  to  be. 
Trace  out  the  Journey  through  their  little  Day, 
And  fondly  dream  an  idle  hour  away. 


NOTES. 

p.  80,  1.  8. 
Stand  still  to  gaze. 
See  the  Iliad,  1.  xviii.  v.  496. 

P.  82,  1.  17. 
Our  pathioay  leads  hit  to  a  precipice  ,• 
See  BossuET,  Sermon  sur  la  Resurrection. 

P.  83,  1.  4. 
We  fly ;  no  resting  for  the  foot  ive  find; 

"  I  have  considered,"  says  Solomon,  "  all  the  works  that  are 
under  the  sun;  and  hchold  all  is  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit." 
But  who  believes  it,  till  death  tells  it  us  ?  It  is  death  alone  that 
can  suddenly  make  man  to  know  himself.  He  tells  the  proud 
and  insolent,  that  they  are  but  abjects,  and  humbles  them  at  the 
instant.  lie  takes  the  account  of  the  rich  man,  and  proves 
him  a  beggar,  a  naked  beggar.  He  holds  a  glass  before  the 
eyes  of  the  most  beautiful,  and  makes  them  see  therein  their 
deformity;  and  they  acknowledge  it. 

0  eloquent,  just,  and  mighty  Death !  whom  none  could 
advise,   thou   hast   persuaded ;    what   none   have   dared,  thou 


116  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

hast  done ;  and  whom  all  the  world  have  flattered,  thou  only 
hast  cast  out  and  despised :  thou  hast  drawn  together  all  the 
far-stretched  greatness,  all  the  pride,  cruelty,  and  ambition  of 
man,  and  covered  it  all  over  with  these  two  narrow  words. 
Hie  jacet. — Raleigh. 

P.  83,  1.  13. 

Now,  seraph-winged,  among  the  stars  ice  soar; 

Inconceivable  are  the  limits  to  our  progress  in  Science. 
"  A  point  that  yesterday  was  invisible,  is  our  goal  to-day,  and 
will  be  our  starting-post  to-morrow." 

P.  83,  I.  19. 
Through  the  dim  curtains  of  Futurity. 

Fancy  can  hardly  forbear  to  conjecture  with  what  temper 
Milton  surveyed  the  silent  progress  of  his  work,  and  marked 
his  reputation  stealing  its  way  in  a  kind  of  subterraneous  cur- 
rent through  fear  and  silence.  I  cannot  but  conceive  him 
calm  and  confident,  little  disappointed,  not  at  all  dejected, 
relying  on  his  own  merit  with  steady  consciousness,  and  wait- 
ing, without  impatience,  the  vicissitudes  of  opinion,  and  the 
impartiality  of  a  future  generation. — Johnson. 

After  line  19,  in  tiic  MS. 

O'er  place  and  time  we  triumph  ;  on  we  go, 
Ranging  at  will  the  realms  above,  belows 
Yet,  ah,  how  little  of  ourselves  we  know ! 


ROGERS'   POEMS.  117 

And  why  the  heart  beats  on,  or  how  the  brain 
Says  to  the  foot,  "  Now  move,  now  rest  again." 
From  age  to  age  we  search  and  search  in  vain. 

P.  83,  1.  22. 
Behold  him  7iow  tmhar  the  prison-door^ 

An  allusion  to  John  Howard.  "  Wherever  he  came,  in 
whatever  country,  the  prisons  and  hospitals  were  thrown  open 
to  him  as  to  the  general  Censor.  Such  is  the  force  of  pure 
and  exalted  virtue !" 

P.  84,  1.  6. 
Long  ivith  his  friend  in  generous  enmity, 

Aristotle's  definition  of  Friendship,  "  one  soul  in  two  bodies," 
is  well  exemplified  by  some  ancient  Author  in  a  dialogue 
between  Ajax  and  Achilles.  "  Of  all  the  wounds  you  ever 
received  in  battle,"  says  Ajax,  "  which  was  the  most  painful 

to  you  V "  That  which  I  received   from  Hector,"  replies 

Achilles. "  But  Hector  never  gave  you   a   wound  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  a  mortal  one ;  when  he  slew  my  friend,  Patroclus." 

P.  84,  I.  8. 

Do  xvJuit  he  ivill,  <^c. 

These  ideas,  whence  are  they  derived;  or  as  Plato  would 
have  expressed  himself,  where  were  they  acquired?  There 
could  not  be  a  better  argument  for  his  doctrine  of  a  pre-ex- 
istent  state. 


118  HOC.  ERS'    POEMS. 

L'hommc  nc  salt  a  quel  rang  sc  mettre.  II  est  visiblemcnt 
dgare  et  sent  en  lui  des  restes  d'un  etat  heureux,  dont  il  est 
dechu,  et  qu'il  ne  peut  retrouver.  11  le  cherche  partout  avec 
inquietude  et  sans  succes  dans  des  tenebres  impenetrables. — Sa 
misere  se  conclut  de  sa  grandeur,  et  sa  grandeur  se  conclut  de 
sa  misere. — Pascal. 

P.  85,  1.  1. 
But  soon  His  past — 
This  light,  which  is  so  heavenly  in  its  lustre,  and  which  is 
every  where  and  on  every  thing  when  we  look  round  us  on 
our  arrival  here;  which,  while  it  lasts,  never  leaves  us, 
rejoicing  us  by  night  as  well  as  by  day,  and  lighting  up  our 
very  dreams ;  yet  when  it  fades,  fades  so  fast,  and,  when  it 
goes,  goes  out  for  ever, — we  may  address  it  in  the  words  of 
the  Poet,  words  which  we  might  apply  so  often  in  this  transi- 
tory life : 

Too  soon  your  value  from  your  loss  we  learn. 

Epistles  in  Verse,  ii. 

P.  85,  1.  3. 

like  the  stone 

That  sheds  awhile  a  lustre  all  its  own, 

See  "  Observations  on  a  diamond  that  shines  in  the  dark." — 

Bovr.K'.s  Works,  i.  789. 

P.  85,  1.  18. 

Schooled  and  trained  up  to  Wisdmn  from  his  birth; 

Cicero,  in  his  Essay  De  Seneciute,  has  drawn  his  images 


R  O  G  I']  R  S  '    P  O  E  M  S.  119 

from  the  better  walks  of  life ;  and  Shakspeare,  in  his  Seven 
Ages,  has  done  so  too.  But  Shakspeare  treats  his  subject 
satirically;  Cicero  as  a  j)hilosopher.  In  the  venerable  por- 
trait of  Cato  we  discover  no  traces  of  "  the  lean  and  slippered 
Pantaloon." 

Every  object  has  a  bright  and  a  dark  side;  and  I  have 
endeavoured  to  look  at  tilings  as  Cicero  has  done.  By  some, 
however,  I  may  be  thought  to  have  followed  too  much  my 
own  dream  of  happiness;  and  in  such  a  dream  indeed  I 
have  often  passed  a  solitary  hour.  It  was  Castle-building 
once;  now  it  is  no  longer  so.  But  whoever  would  try  to 
realize  it,  would  not  perhaps  repent  of  his  endeavour. 

P.  85,  I.  20. 
TJie  day  arrives,  the  moment  ivished  a7id  feared ; 

A  Persian  Poet  has  left  us  a  beautiful  thought  on  this  sub- 
ject, which  the  reader,  if  he  has  not  met  with  it,  will  be  glad  to 
know,  and,  if  he  has,  to  remember. 

Thee  on  thy  Mother's  knees,  a  new-born  child. 
In  tears  we  saw  when  all  around  thee  smiled. 
So  live,  that,  sinking  in  thy  last  long  sleep, 
Smiles  may  be  thine,  when  all  around  thee  weep. 

For  my  version  I  am  in  a  great  measure  indebted  to  Sir 
William  Jones. 

P.  87,  1.  23. 
"  These  are  my  Jewels!'''' 

The  uiiecdule  here  alluded  to,  is  related  by  Valerius  Maxi- 
mus,  Lib,  iv.  c.  4. 


120  ROGERS'    POEM  «. 

P.  87,  1.  2,1. 
"  SuJJcr  these  little  ones  to  come  to  me  /" 

In  our  early  Youth,  while  yet  we  live  only  among  those  we 
love,  we  love  without  restraint,  and  our  hearts  overflow  in 
every  look,  word,  and  action.  But  when  we  enter  the  world 
and  are  repulsed  by  strangers,  forgotten  by  friends,  we  grow 
more  and  more  timid  in  our  approaches  even  to  those  we  love 
best. 

How  delightful  to  us  then  are  the  little  caresses  of  children ! 
All  sincerity,  all  ajffection,  they  fly  into  our  arms;  and  then, 
and  then  only,  do  we  feel  our  first  confidence,  our  first  pleasure. 

P.  88,  1.  1. 

he  reveres 

The  hroio  engraven  ivith  the  Thoughts  of  Years; 

This  is  a  law  of  Nature.  Age  was  anciently  synonymous 
with  power;  and  we  may  always  observe  that  the  old  are 
held  in  more  or  less  honour  as  men  are  more  or  less  virtuous. 
"Shame,"  says  Homer,  "bids  the  youth  beware  how  he  accosts 
the  man  of  many  years."  "  Thou  shalt  rise  up  before  the 
hoary  head,  and  honour  the  face  of  an  old  man." — Leviticus. 

Among  us,  and  wherever  birth  and  possessions  give  rank  and 
authority,  the  young  and  the  profligate  are  seen  continually 
above  the  old  and  the  worthy:  there  Age  can  never  find  its 
due  respect.  But  among  many  of  the  ancient  nations  it  was 
otherwise ;  and  they  reaped  the  benefit  of  it.  Rien  ne  main- 
tient  plus  Ics  moeurs,  cju'une  extreme  subordination  des  jeunes 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  121 

gens  envers  les  vieillards.  Les  uns  et  les  autres  seront  con- 
tenus,  ceux-la  par  le  respect  qu'ils  auront  pour  les  vieillards, 
et  ceux-ci  par  le  respect  qu'ils  auront  pour  eux-memes. — 
Montesquieu. 

P.  88,  1.  13. 

Burns  as  they  hum,  and  iciilt  con ge7iial  fire. 

How  many  generations  have  passed  away,  how  many  em- 
pires and  how  many  languages,  since  Homer  sung  his  verses 
to  the  Greeks !  Yet  the  words  which  he  uttered  and  which 
were  only  so  much  fleeting  breath,  remain  entire  to  this  day, 
and  will  now  in  all  probability  continue  to  delight  and  instruct 
mankind  as  long  as  the  world  endures. 

P.  88,  1.  14. 
Like  Her  most  gentle,  most  unfortunate, 

Before  I  went  into  Germany,  I  came  to  Brodegate  in  Leices- 
tershire, to  take  my  leave  of  that  noble  Lady  Jane  Grey,  to 
whom  I  was  exceeding  much  beholding.  Her  parents,  the 
Duke  and  Duchess,  with  all  the  Household,  Gentlemen  and 
Gentlewomen,  were  hunting  in  the  park.  I  found  her  in  her 
chamber,  reading  Phasdo  Platonis  in  Greek,  and  that  with  as 
much  delight  as  some  gentlemen  would  read  a  merry  talc  in 
Boccace.  After  salutation,  and  duty  done,  with  some  other 
talk,  I  asked  her,  why  she  would  lose  such  pastime  in  the 
park '?     Smiling,   she  answered  me :   "  I  wist,  all  their  sport 

16 


122  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

in  ihc  park  is  but  a  shadow  to  that  pleasure  which  I  find  in 
Plato." — Roger  Ascham. 

P.  88,  1.  19. 
T]ie7i  is  the  Age  of  Admiration — 
Dante  in  his  old  age  was  pointed  out  to  Petrarch  when  a 
boy ;  and  Dryden  to  Pope. 

Who  does  not  wish  that  Dante  and  Dryden  could  have 
known  the  value  of  the  homage  that  was  paid  them,  and 
foreseen  the  greatness  of  their  young  admirers  1 

P.  89,  1.  20. 
And  Milton's  self 
I  began  thus  far  to  assent  ...  to  an  inward  prompting 
which  now  grew  daily  upon  me,  that  by  labour  and  intent 
study,  (which  I  take  to  be  my  portion  in  this  life)  joined  with 
the  strong  propensity  of  nature,  I  might  perhaps  leave  some- 
thing so  written  to  aftertimes,  as  they  should  not  willingly  let 

it  die. — IMiLTox. 

P.  91,  1.  21. 

.     .     .     ''tiras  at  malin-time 

Love  and  devotion  are  said  to  be  nearly  allied.     Boccaccio 

fell   in   love   at  Naples   in   the   church   of    St.   Lorenzo;    as 

Petrarch  had  done  at  Avignon  in  the  church  of  St.  Clair. 

P.  92,  1.  21. 

Lovely  before,  oh,,  say  haio  lovely  ncnv  ! 
Ts   i1   noi    Irue,   that    the   young  not   only  appear  1o  be,  but 


ROGERS'    1' OEMS.  '  123 

really  are,  most  beautiful  in  the  presence  of  those  they  love? 
It  calls  forth  all  their  beauty. 

P.  94,  I.  19. 

And  feeling  hearts — touch  them  but  rightly — pour 
A  thousand  melodies  unheard  before  ! 

Xenophon  has  left  us  a  delightful  instance  of  conjugal 
affection. 

The  King  of  Armenia  not  fulfilling  his  promise,  Cyrus 
entered  the  country,  and,  having  taken  him  and  all  his  family 
prisoners,  ordered  them  instantly  before  him.  Armenian,  said 
he,  you  are  free;  for  you  are  now  sensible  of  your  error. 
And  what  will  you  give  me  if  I  restore  your  wife  to  you? — 
All  that  I  am  able. — What,  if  I  restore  your  children? — All 
that  I  am  able. — And  you,  Tigranes,  said  he,  turning  to  the 
Son,  What  would  you  do,  to  save  your  wife  from  servitude  ? 
Now  Tigranes  was  but  lately  married,  and  had  a  great  love 
for  his  wife.  Cyrus,  he  replied,  to  save  her  from  servitude,  I 
would  willingly  lay  down  my  life. 

Let  each  have  his  own  again,  said  Cyrus  ;  and,  when  he 
was  departed,  one  spoke  of  his  clemency ;  and  another  of  his 
valour;  and  another  of  his  beauty  and  the  graces  of  his  person. 
Upon  which  Tigranes  asked  his  wife,  if  she  thought  him 
handsome.  Really,  said  she,  I  did  not  look  at  him. — At  whom 
then  did  you  look  ? — At  him  who  said  he  would  lay  down  his 
hfe  for  me. — Cyropaedia,  L.  III. 


124  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

P.  95,  1.  23. 

He  turns  their  thoughts  to  Him  ivlio  mcule  tliem  all; 

When  such  is  the  ruling,  the  habitual  sentiment  of  our  minds, 
the  world  becomes  a  temple  and  life  itself  one  continued  act  of 
adoration. — Paley. 

P.  97,  1.  15. 
Through  the  night. 

Hers  the  mournful  privilege,  "  adsidere  valetudini,  fovere 
deficientem,  satiari  vultu,  complexu." — Tacitus. 

P.  97,  1.  17. 
sJie  sits  silent  by, 

We  may  have  many  friends  in  life ;  but  we  can  only  have 
one  mother ;  "  a  discovery,"  says  Gray,  "  which  I  never  made 
till  it  was  too  late." 

The  child  is  no  sooner  born  than  it  clings  to  his  mother; 
nor,  while  she  lives,  is  her  image  absent  from  him  in  the  hour 
of  his  distress.  Sir  John  Moore,  when  he  fell  from  his  horse 
in  the  battle  of  Corunna,  faltered  out  with  his  dying  breath 
some  message  to  his  mother;  and  who  can  forget  the  last 
words  of  Conradin,  when,  in  his  fifteenth  year,  he  was  led 
forth  to  die  at  Naples,  "  O  my  mother  !  how  great  will  be  your 
grief,  when  you  hear  of  it !" 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  125 

P.  98,  1.  18. 

.     .     .     '  dust  to  dust ' 

IIow  exquisite  arc  those  lines  of  Petrarch ! 

Le  crespe  chiome  d'or  puro  lucente, 
E'  1  lampeg-giar  d  'ell  angelico  riso, 
Che  solean  far  in  terra  un  paradiso, 
Poca  polvere  son,  che  nulla  sente. 

P.  99,  1.  3. 

He  goes,  and  Night  conies  as  it  never  came! 

These  circumstances,  as  well  as  some  others  that  follow,  are 
happily,  as  far  as  they  regard  England,  of  an  ancient  date. 
To  us  the  miseries  inflicted  by  a  foreign  invader  are  now 
known  only  by  description.  Many  generations  have  passed 
away  since  our  countrywomen  saw  the  smoke  of  an  enemy's 
camp. 

But  the  same  passions  are  always  at  work  every  where,  and 
their  effects  are  always  nearly  the  same ;  though  the  circum- 
stances that  attend  them  arc  infinitely  various. 

P.  99,  I.  21. 

Such  as  the  heart  delights  i?i — and  records 
Within  how  silently — 

Si  tout  cela  consistoit  en  faits,  en  actions,  en  paroles,  on  pour- 
roit  le  decrire  et  le  rcndre  en  quelque  fa^on:  mais  comment 
dire  ce  qui  n'etoit  ni  dit,  ni  fait,  ni  pcnse  meme,  mais  goiite, 
mais  senti. — Le  vrai  bonhcur  ne  se  decrit  pas. — Rousseau. 


126  ROGERS'   POEMS. 

P.  101,  1.  12. 
.     .     .     .     a7id,  when  all  are  there. 

So  many  pathetic  affections  are  awakened  by  every  exercise 
of  social  devotion,  that  most  men,  I  believe,  carry  away  from 
public  worship  a  better  temper  towards  the  rest  of  mankind 
than  they  brought  with  them.  Having  all  one  interest  to 
secure,  one  Lord  to  serve,  one  Judgment  to  look  forward  to, 
we  cannot  but  remember  our  common  relationship,  and  our 
natural  equality  is  forced  upon  our  thoughts.  The  distinctions 
of  civil  life  are  almost  always  insisted  upon  too  much,  and 
whatever  conduces  to  restore  the  level,  improves  the  character 
on  both  sides. — If  ever  the  poor  man  holds  up  his  head,  it  is  at 
church ;  if  ever  the  rich  man  looks  upon  him  with  respect,  it  is 
there ;  and  both  will  be  the  better  the  oftener  they  meet  where 
the  feeling  of  superiority  is  mitigated  in  the  one  and  the  spirit 
of  the  other  is  erected  and  confirmed. — Paley. 

P.  102,  1.  14, 
Soon  through  the  gaddmg  vine,  ^-c. 

An  English  breakfast;  which  may  well  excite  in  others 
what  in  Rousseau  continued  through  life,  un  gout  vif  pour  les 
dejeunes.  Cost  le  tems  de  la  journec  ou  nous  sommes  Ic  plus 
tranquillcs,  ou  nous  causons  Ic  plus  a  notre  aise. 

The  luxuries  here  mentioned,  familiar  to  us  as  they  now  arc, 
were  almost  unknown  before  the  Revolution. 


ROGERS'    POEJJS.  127 

P.  103,  1.  19. 
With  honest  digmty^ 

He,  who  resolves  to  rise  in  the  world  by  Politics  or  Religion, 
can  degrade  his  mind  to  any  degree  when  he  sets  about  it. 
Overcome  the  first  scruple,  and  the  work  is  done.  "  You 
hesitate,"  said  one  who  spoke  from  experience.  "  Put  on  the 
mask,  young  man ;  and  in  a  very  little  while  you  will  not 
know  it  from  your  own  face." 

P.  103,  1.  21. 
Take  Hampden  struggling  in  his  Country's  cause, 

Zeuxis  is  said  to  have  drawn  his  Helen  from  an  assemblage 
of  the  most  beautiful  women  ;  and  many  a  Writer  of  Fiction, 
in  forming  a  life  to  his  mind,  has  recourse  to  the  brightest 
moments  in  the  lives  of  others. 

I  may  be  suspected  of  having  done  so  here,  and  of  having 
designed,  as  it  were,  from  living  models ;  but,  by  making  an 
allusion  now  and  then  to  those  who  have  really  lived,  I  thought 
I  should  give  something  of  interest  to  the  picture,  as  well  as 
better  illustrate  my  meaning. 

P.  103,  I.  24. 

Careless  of  blame  %t'hilc  his  oivn  heart  apiprones. 
Careless  of  ruin — 

"By  the  Mass!"  said  the  Duke  of  Norfolk  to  Sir  Thomas 
More,  "By  the  Mass!  master  More,  it  is  perilous  striving 
with  princes ;  the  anger  of  a  prince  is  death." — "  Is  that  all. 


128  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

my  lord  ?  then  the  difference  between  you  and  me  is  but  this — 
that  I  shall  die  to-day  and  you  to-morrow.^' — Roper's  Life. 

P.  104,  1.  3. 
0)1  thro'  tltat  gate  misnamed^ 
Traitor's  Gate,  the  water-gate  in  the  Tower  of  London. 

P.  104,  I.  6. 
Then  to  the  place  of  trial ^ 

This  very  slight  sketch  of  Civil  Dissension  is  taken  from  our 
own  annals ;  but,  for  an  obvious  reason,  not  from  those  of  our 
own  Age. 

The  persons,  here  immediately  alluded  to,  lived  more  than 
a  hundred  years  ago,  in  a  reign  which  Blackstone  has  justly 
represented  as  wicked,  sanguinary,  and  turbulent;  but  such 
times  have  always  afforded  the  most  signal  instances  of  heroic 
courage  and  ardent  affection. 

Great  reverses,  like  theirs,  lay  open  the  human  heart.  They 
occur  indeed  but  seldom ;  yet  all  men  are  liable  to  them ;  all, 
when  they  occur  to  others,  make  them  more  or  less  their  own ; 
and,  were  we  to  describe  our  condition  to  an  inhabitant  of 
some  other  planet,  could  we  omit  what  forms  so  striking  a 
circumstance  in  human  life  ? 

P.  104,  1.  6. 
.     .     ,     .     and  alone, 

A  prisoner,  prosecuted  for  high  treason,  may  now  make  his 


R  O  G  E  R  S  '    P  O  E  M  K.  1 29 

defence  by  counsel.  In  the  reign  of  William  the  Third  tho 
law  was  altered ;  and  it  was  in  rising  to  urge  the  necessity  of 
an  alteration,  that  Lord  Shaftesbury,  with  such  admirable 
quickness,  took  advantage  of  the  embarrassment  that  seized 
him.  "  If  I,"  said  he,  "  who  rise  only  to  give  my  opinion  of 
this  bill,  am  so  confounded  that  I  cannot  say  what  I  intended, 
what  must  be  the  condition  of  that  man,  who,  without  any 
assistance,  is  pleading  for  his  life  ?' 

P.  104,  1.  11. 

Like  tliat  sircct  Saint  who  sate  by  Russell's  side 
Under  tlic  Judgment -scat. 

Lord  Russell.   May  I  have  somebody  to  write,  to  assist  my 
memory. 

Mr.  Attorney  General.  Yes,  a  Servant. 

Loi'd  Chief  Justice.  Any  of  your  Servants  shall  assist  you 
in  writing  any  thing  you  please  for  you. 

Lord  Russell.  My  Wife  is  here,  my  Lord,  to  do  it. — State 
Trials,  II. 

P.   101,  I.  17. 
Tlu'icc  greeting  lliosc  vlio  most  ujithdraw  their  claim, 

Sec  the  Alcesti.s  of  Euripitles,  v.  l'J4. 

17 


130  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

P.  104,  1.  22. 
io,  there  tloe  Friend, 

Such  as  Russell  found  in  Cavendish ;   and  such  as  many 

have  found. 

P.  105,  1.  3. 

And,  iclien  her  dear,  dear  Father  passed  along, 
An  allusion  to  the  last  interview  of  Sir  Thomas  More  and 
his  daughter  Margaret.  "  Dear  Meg,"  said  he,  when  after- 
wards with  a  coal  he  wrote  to  bid  her  farewell,  *'  I  never  liked 
your  manner  towards  me  better ;  for  I  like  when  daughterly 
love  and  dear  charity  have  no  leisure  to  look  to  worldly 
courtesy." — Roper's  Life. 

P.  105,  1.  17. 
Her  glory  now,  as  ever  her  delight ! 
Epaminondas,  after  his  victory  at  Leuctra,  rejoiced  most  of 
all  at  the  pleasure  which  it  would  give  his  father  and  mother ; 
and  who  would  not  have  envied  them  their  feelings  1 

Cornelia  was  called  at  Rome  the  Mother-in-law  of  Scipio. 
"  When,"  said  she  to  her  sons,  "  shall  I  be  called  the  Mother 
of  the  Gracchi?" 

P.  108,  1.  12. 
Immoveable— for  ever  there  to  freeze  ! 
She  was  under  all  her  sails,  and  looked  less   like   a   ship 
incrusted  with   ice   than  ice   in   the    fashion  of  a   ship. — See 
the  Voyage  of  Captain  Thomas  James,  in  1631. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  131 

P.  108,  1.  18. 

Of  burning  sand  their  everlasting  grave  ! 

After  1.  18  in  the  MS. 
Now  the  scene  shifts  to  Cashmere — to  a  glade 
Where,  with  her  loved  gazelle,  the  dark-eyed  Maid 
(Her  fragrant  chamber  for  awhile  resigned. 
Her  lute,  by  fits  discoursing  with  the  wind) 
Wanders  well-pleased,  what  time  the  Nightingale 
Sings  to  the  Rose,  rejoicing  hill  and  dale ; 
And  now  to  Venice — to  a  bridge,  a  square,  &c. 

P.  109,  !.  5. 
Lo,  on  his  back  a  Son  brings  in  his  Sire, 
An  act  of  filial  piety  represented  on  the  coins  of  Catana,  a 
Greek  city,  some  remains  of  which  are  still  to  he  seen  at  the 
foot  of  Mount  iEtna.  The  story  is  told  of  two  brothers  who 
in  this  manner  saved  both  their  parents.  The  place  from 
which  they  escaped,  was  long  called  the  field  of  the  pious ; 
and  public  games  were  annually  held  there  to  commemorate 
the  event. 

p.  109,  I.  11. 
From  Jiarj)  or  organ  ! 
What  a  pleasing  picture  of  domestic  hfe  is  given  to  us  by 
Bishop  Berkeley  in  his  letters  !  "  The  more  we  have  of  good 
instruments  the  better :  for  all  my  children,  not  excepting  my 
little  daughter,  learn  to  play,  and  are  preparing  to  fill  my 
house  with  harmony  against  all  events ;  that,  if  we  have  worse 
times,  we  may  have  better  spirits." 


132  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

P.  109,  1.  18. 

Ancl  icith  assurance  sweet  her  soul  revive 
In  child-birth — 

See  the  Alcestis  of  Euripides,  v.  328. 

P.  109,  1.  22. 
Who  lives  not  for  another. 
How  often,  says  an  excellent  writer,  do  we  err  in  our 
estimate  of  happiness !  When  I  hear  of  a  man  who  has 
noble  parks,  splendid  palaces,  and  every  luxury  in  life,  I 
always  inquire  whom  he  has  to  love ;  and,  if  I  find  he  has 
nobody  or  does  not  love  those  he  has — in  the  midst  of  all  his 
grandeur  I  pronounce  him  a  being  in  deep  adversity. 

P.  110,  1.  6. 
O  tliou  aU-cJorpic7it,  u-Jlosc  mighty  mind 

Cicero.  It  is  remarkable  that,  among  the  comforts  of  Old 
Age,  he  has  not  mentioned  those  arising  from  the  society  of 
women  and  children.  Perhaps  the  husband  of  Terentia  and 
"  the  father  of  Marcus  felt  something  on  the  subject,  of  which 
he  was  willing  to  spare  himself  the  recollection." 

P.  113,  1.  18. 
And  stars  are  kindling  in  the  firmament. 
An  old  writer  breaks  off  in  a  very  lively  manner  at  a  later 
hour  of  the  night.  "  But  the  Ilyades  run  low  in  the  heavens, 
and  to  keep  our  eyes  open  any  longer  were  to  act  our  Anti- 
podes. The  Huntsmen  are  up  in  America,  and  they  are 
already  past  their  first  sleep  in  Persia." 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  133 


Beforr  I  conclude,  I  would  say  something  in  favour  of 
the  old-fashioned  triplet,  which  I  have  here  ventured  to  use 
so  often.  Dryden  seems  to  have  delighted  in  it,  and  in  many 
of  his  poems  has  used  it  much  oftener  than  I  have  done,  as 
for  instance  in  the  Hind  and  Panther,*  and  in  Theodore  and 
Honoria,  where  he  introduces  it  three,  four,  and  even  five 
times  in  succession. 

If  I  have  erred  any  where  in  the  structure  of  my  verse 
from  a  desire  to  follow  yet  earlier  and  higher  examples,  I 
rely  on  the  forgiveness  of  those  in  whose  car  the  music  of  our 
old  versification  is  still  sounding.^ 

*  Pope  used  lo  mention  tliis  poem  as  the  most  correct  specimen  of 
Dryden's  versification.  It  was  indeed  written  wlicn  lie  had  completely 
formed  his  manner,  and  may  be  supposed  to  exliibit,  negligence  excepted, 
his  deliberate  and  ultimate  scheme  of  metre. — Johnson. 

t  With  regard  to  trisyllables,  as  their  accent  is  very  rarely  on  the  last, 
they  cannot  properly  be  any  rhymes  at  all :  yet  nevertheless  I  highly 
commend  those,  who  have  judiciously  and  sparingly  introduced  them,  as 
such. — Gray. 


AN 


EPISTLE   TO   A   FRIEND. 


1708. 


Villula et  pauper  agelle, 

Me  tibi,  et  hos  una  mecum,  quos  semper  amavi, 
Commcndo. 


THE     ARG-UMENT. 

A71  i?ivitatio7i —  TJie  ajpinoacli  to  a  Villa  described — Its  situation — 
Its  few  apartments — Furnished  with  casts  from  the  Antiq^ie,  ^-c. 
—  The  dining-room — The  library — A  cold-bath — A  uinter-walh 
— A  summcr-ioalk — Tlie  invitation  renewed — Conclusion. 


PREFACE. 

Every  reader  turns  with  pleasure  to  those  passages 
of  Horace,  and  Pope,  and  Boileau,  which  describe 
how  they  lived  and  where  they  dwelt ;  and  which,  be- 
ing interspersed  among  their  satirical  writings,  derive 
a  secret  and  irresistible  grace  from  the  contrast,  and 
are  admirable  examples  of  what  in  Painting  is  termed 
repose. 

We  have  admittance  to  Horace  at  all  hours.  We 
enjoy  the  company  and  conversation  at  his  table ;  and 
his  suppers,  like  Plato's,  "  non  solum  in  praesentia,  sed 
etiam  postero  die  jucundae  sunt."  But,  when  we  look 
round  as  we  sit  there,  we  find  ourselves  in  a  Sabine 
farm,  and  not  in  a  Roman  villa.  His  windows  have 
every  charm  of  prospect ;  but  his  furniture  might  have 
descended  from  Cincinnatus ;  and  gems,  and  pictures, 
and  old  marbles,  are  mentioned  by  him  more  than  once 
with  a  seeming  indifference. 

His  English  Imitator  thought  and  felt  perhaps,  more 
correctly  on  the  subject ;  and  embellished  his   garden 

1^ 


138  ROGERS'    rOEMS. 

and  grotto  with  great  industry  and  success.  But  to 
these  alone  he  solicits  our  notice.  On  the  ornaments 
of  his  house  he  is  silent ;  and  he  appears  to  have 
reserved  all  the  minuter  touches  of  his  pencil  for 
the  library,  the  chapel,  and  the  banqueting-room  of 
Timon.  "  Le  savoir  de  notre  siecle,"  says  Rousseau, 
"  tend  beaucoup  plus  a  detruire  qu'a  edifier.  On  cen- 
sure d'un  ton  de  maitre  ;  pour  proposer,  il  en  faut 
prendre  un  autre." 

It  is  the  design  of  this  Epistle  to  illustrate  the  virtue 
of  True  Taste ;  and  to  show  how  little  she  requires  to 
secure,  not  only  the  comforts,  but  even  the  elegancies 
of  life.  True  Taste  is  an  excellent  Economist.  She 
confines  her  choice  to  few  objects,  and  delights  in  pro- 
ducing great  effects  by  small  means  :  while  False  Taste 
is  for  ever  sighing  after  the  new  and  the  rare  ;  and 
reminds  us,  in  her  works,  of  the  Scholar  of  Apelles, 
who,  not  being  able  to  paint  his  Helen  beautiful,  de- 
termined to  make  her  fine. 


AN 


EPISTLE    TO    A   FRIEND. 


When,  with  a  Reaumur's  skill,  thy  curious  mind 

Has  classed  the  insect-tribes  of  human-kind. 

Each  with  its  busy  hum,  or  gilded  wing. 

Its  subtle  web-work,  or  its  venomed  sting  ; 

Let  me,  to  claim  a  few  unvalued  hours. 

Point  out  the  green  lane  rough  with  fern  and  flowers ; 

The  sheltered  gate  that  opens  to  my  field, 

And  the  white  front  thro'  mingling  elms  revealed. 

In  vain,  alas,  a  village-friend  invites 
To  simple  comforts,  and  domestic  rites. 
When  the  gay  months  of  Carnival  resume 
Their  annual  round  of  glitter  and  perfume  ; 
When  London  hails  thee  to  its  splendid  mart. 
Its  hives  of  sweets,  and  cabinets  of  art ; 
And,  lo,  majestic  as  thy  manly  song. 
Flows  the  full  tide  of  human  life  along. 


140  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Still  must  my  partial  pencil  love  to  dwell 
On  the  home-prospects  of  my  hermit-cell  ; 
The  mossy  pales  that  skirt  the  orchard-green, 
Here  hid  by  shrub-wood,  there  by  glimpses  seen  ; 
And  the  brown  pathway,  that,  with  careless  flow, 
Sinks,  and  is  lost  among  the  trees  below. 
Still  must  it  trace  (the  flattering  tints  forgive) 
Each  fleeting  charm  that  bids  the  landscape  live. 
Oft  o'er  the  mead,  at  pleasing  distance,  pass 
Browsing  the  hedge  by  fits  the  panniered  ass  ; 
The  idling  shepherd-boy,  with  rude  delight, 
Whistling  his  dog  to  mark  the  pebble's  flight ; 
And  in  her  kerchief  blue  the  cottage-maid, 
With  brimming  pitcher  from  the  shadowy  glade. 
Far  to  the  south  a  mountain-vale  retires, 
Rich  in  its  groves,  and  glens,  and  village-spires  ; 
Its  upland-lawns,  and  clifl^s  with  foliage  hung, 
Its  wizard-stream,  nor  nameless  nor  unsung  : 
And  through  the  various  year,  the  various  day. 
What  scenes  of  glory  burst,  and  melt  away ! 

When  April-verdure  springs  in  Grosvenor-square, 
And  the  furred  Beauty  comes  to  winter  there, 
She  bids  old  Nature  mar  the  plan  no  more  ; 
Yet  still  the  sonsons  circle  as  before. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  141 

Ah,  still  as  soon  the  young  Aurora  plays, 

Tho'  moons  and  flambeaux  trail  their  broadest  blaze ; 

As  soon  the  sky-lark  pours  his  matin-song, 

Tho'  Evening  lingers  at  the  masque  so  long, 

There  let  her  strike  with  momentary  ray. 
As  tapers  shine  their  little  lives  away  ; 
There  let  her  practise  from  herself  to  steal, 
And  look  the  happiness  she  does  not  feel  ; 
The  ready  smile  and  bidden  blush  employ 
At  Faro-routs  that  dazzle  to  destroy ; 
Fan  with  affected  ease  the  essenced  air. 
And  lisp  of  fashions  with  unmeaning  stare. 
Be  thine  to  meditate  an  humbler  flight. 
When  morning  fills  the  fields  with  rosy  light  ; 
Be  thine  to  blend,  nor  thine  a  vulgar  aim. 
Repose  with  dignity,  with  Quiet  fame. 

Here  no  state-chambers  in  long  line  unfold, 
Bright  with  broad  mirrors,  rough  with  fretted  gold  ; 
Yet  modest  ornament,  with  use  com.bined. 
Attracts  the  eye  to  exercise  the  mind. 
Small  change  of  scene,  small  space  his  home  requires. 
Who  leads  a  life  of  satisfied  desires. 

What  tho'  no  marble  l)reathes,  no  canvas  glows, 
I'rom  every  point  a  ray  of  genius  flows ! 


142  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Be  mine  to  bless  the  more  mechanic  skill, 
That  stamps,  renews,  and  multiplies  at  will ; 
And  cheaply  circulates,  thro'  distant  climes, 
The  fairest  relics  of  the  purest  times. 
Here  from  the  mould  to  conscious  being  start 
Those  finer  forms,  the  miracles  of  art ; 
Here  chosen  gems,  imprest  on  sulphur,  shine. 
That  slept  for  ages  in  a  second  mine  ; 
And  here  the  faithful  graver  dares  to  trace 
A  Michael's  grandeur,  and  a  Raphael's  grace  I 
Thy  gallery,  Florence,  gilds  my  humble  walls ; 
And  my  low  roof  the  Vatican  recalls ! 

Soon  as  the  morning-dream  my  pillow  flies, 
To  waking  sense  what  brighter  visions  rise  ! 
O  mark  !  again  the  coursers  of  the  Sun, 
At  Gumo's  call,  their  round  of  glory  run  ! 
Again  the  rosy  Hours  resume  their  flight. 
Obscured  and  lost  in  floods  of  golden  light ! 

But  could  thine  erring  friend  so  long  forget 
(Sweet  source  of  pensive  joy  and  fond  regret) 
That  here  its  warmest  hues  the  pencil  flings, 
Lo!  here  the  lost  restores,  the  absent  brings  ; 
And  still  the  Few  best  loved  and  most  revered 
Rise  round  the  board  their  social  smile  endeared  ? 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  y      ♦  143 

Selected  shelves  shall  claim  thy  studious  hours  ; 
There  shall  thy  ranging  mind  be  fed  on  flowers  !* 
There,  while  the  shaded  lamp's  mild  lustre  streams, 
Read  ancient  books,  or  dream  inspiring  dreams  ; 
And,  when  a  sage's  bust  arrests  thee  there, 
Pause,  and  his  features  with  his  thoughts  compare. 
— Ah,  most  that  Art  my  grateful  rapture  calls. 
Which  breathes  a  soul  into  the  silent  walls  ;t 
Which  gathers  round  the  Wise  of  every  Tongue, 
All  on  whose  words  departed  nations  hung ; 
Still  prompt  to  charm  with  many  a  converse  sweet ; 
Guides  in  the  world,  companions  in  retreat ! 

Tho'  my  thatched  bath  no  rich  Mosaic  knows, 
A  limpid  spring  with  unfelt  current  flows. 
Emblem  of  Life  !  which,  still  as  we  survey, 
Seems  motionless,  yet  ever  glides  away  ! 
The  shadowy  walls  record,  with  Attic  art, 
The  strength  and  beauty  which  its  waves  impart. 
Here  Thetis,  bending,  with  a  mother's  fears 
Dips  her  dear  boy,  whose  pride  restrains  his  tears. 

*  .     .     apis  MatinsD 

More  modoque 
Grata  carpcntis  tliynia     .     .     . — IIoR. 
t  Postea  vero  quam  Tyrannic  mihi  libros  disposuit,  mens  addita  videtur 
meis  jcdibus. — Cic. 


144  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

There  Venus,  rising,  shrinks  with  sweet  surprise. 
As  her  fair  self  reflected  seems  to  rise  ! 

Far  from  the  joyless  glare,  the  maddening  strife. 
And  all  the  dull  impertinence  of  life, 
These  eyelids  open  to  the  rising  ray, 
And  close,  when  Nature  bids,  at  close  of  day. 
Here,  at  the  dawn,  the  kindling  landscape  glows  ; 
There  noonday  levees  call  from  faint  repose. 
Here  the  flushed  wave  flings  back  the  parting  light ; 
There  glimmering  lamps  anticipate  the  night. 
When  from  his  classic  dreams  the  student  steals,* 
Amid  the  buzz  of  crowds,  the  whirl  of  wheels. 
To  muse  unnoticed — while  around  him  press 
The  meteor-forms  of  equipage  and  dress  ; 
Alone,  in  wonder  lost,  he  seems  to  stand 
A  very  stranger  in  his  native  land  ! 
And  (tho'  perchance  of  current  coin  possest, 
And  modern  phrase  by  living  lips  exprest) 
Like  those  blest  Youths,  forgive  the  fabling  page, 
Whose  blameless  lives  deceived  a  twilight  age, 

*  Ingeniuin,  sibi  quod  vacuas  dcsumsit  Athenas, 
Et  studiis  annos  scptcm  dodit,  iiiscnuitque 
Libris  ct  curis,  statuii  laciturnius  exit 
IMcruuKiuc     .     ■     .     . — lIuK. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  145 

Spent  in  sweet  slumbers ;  till  the  miner's  spade 
Unclosed  the  cavern,  and  the  morning  played. 
Ah,  what  their  strange  surprise,  their  wild  delight  I 
New  arts  of  life,  new  manners  meet  their  sight ! 
In  a  new  world  they  wake,  as  from  the  dead  ; 
Yet  doubt  the  trance  dissolved,  the  vision  fled ! 

O  come,  and,  rich  in  intellectual  wealth, 
Blend  thought  with  exercise,  with  knowledge  health  ; 
Long,  in  this  sheltered  scene  of  lettered  talk. 
With  sober  step  repeat  the  pensive  walk. 
Nor  scorn,  when  graver  triflings  fail  to  please. 
The  cheap  amusements  of  a  mind  at  ease  ; 
Here  every  care  in  sweet  oblivion  cast, 
And  many  an  idle  hour — not  idly  passed. 

No  tuneful  echoes,  ambushed  at  my  gate. 
Catch  the  blest  accents  of  the  wise  and  great. 
Vain  of  its  various  page,  no  Album  breathes 
The  sigh  that  Friendship  or  the  Muse  bequeaths. 
Yet  some  good  Genii  o'er  my  hearth  preside, 
Oft  the  far  friend,  with  secret  spell,  to  guide ; 
And  there  I  trace,  when  the  gray  evening  lours, 
A  silent  chronicle  of  happier  hours! 

When  Christmas  revels  in  a  world  of  snow. 
And  bids  her  berries  blush,  her  carols  flow, 

19 


\IG  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

His  spangling  shower  when  Frost  the  wizard  flings; 

Or,  borne  in  ether  blue,  on  viewless  wings, 

O'er  the  white  pane  his  silvery  foliage  weaves, 

And  gems  with  icicles  the  sheltering  eaves ; 

— Thy  muffled  friend  his  nectarine-wall  pursues, 

What  time  the  sun  the  yellow  crocus  woos, 

Screened  from  the  arrowy  North  ;  and  duly  hies* 

To  meet  the  morning-rumour  as  it  flies ; 

To  range  the  murmuring  market-place,  and  view 

The  motley  groups  that  faithful  Teniers  drew. 

When  Spring  bursts  forth  in  blossoms  thro'  the  vale, 
And  her  wild  music  triumphs  on  the  gale, 
Oft  with  my  book  I  muse  from  stile  to  stile  ;t 
Oft  in  my  porch  the  listless  noon  beguile. 
Framing  loose  numbers,  till  declining  day 
Thro'  the  green  trellis  shoots  a  crimson  ray  ; 
Till  the  West-wind  leads  on  the  twilight  hours, 
And  shakes  the  fragrant  bells  of  closing  flowers. 

Nor  boast,  O  Choisy,  seat  of  soft  delight. 
The  secret  charm  of  thy  voluptuous  night. 

*  Fallacciii  circum,  vespcrtinumquc  pcrcrro 
Ssepe  forum. — IIoR. 
t  Tantot,  un  livrc  en  main,  errant  dans  Ics  preries     .     . — IjOileau. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  147 

Vain  is  the  blaze  of  wealth,  the  pomp  of  power ! 
Lo,  here,  attendant  on  the  shadowy  hour, 
Thy  closet-supper,  served  by  hands  unseen, 
Sheds,  like  an  evening-star,  its  ray  serene, 
To  hail  our  coming.     Not  a  step  profane 
Dares,  with  rude  sound,  the  cheerful  rite  restrain  ; 
And,  while  the  frugal  banquet  glows  revealed, 
Pure  and  unbought  * — the  natives  of  my  field  ; 
While  blushing  fruits  thro'  scattered  leaves  invite, 
Still  clad  in  bloom,  and  veiled  in  azure  light  ; — 
With  wine,  as  rich  in  years  as  Horace  sings, 
With  water,  clear  as  his  own  fountain  flings, 
The  shifting  sideboard  plays  its  humbler  part. 
Beyond  the  triumphs  of  a  Loriot's  art. 

Thus,  in  this  calm  recess,  so  richly  frauglit 
With  mental  light,  and  luxury  of  thought. 
My  life  steals  on  ;  (O  could  it  blend  with  thine  !) 
Careless  my  course,  yet  not  without  design. 
So  thro'  the  vales  of  Loire  the  bee-hives  glide, 
The  light  raft  dropping  with  the  silent  tide  ; 
So,  till  the  laughing  scenes  are  lost  in  night. 
The  busy  people  wing  their  various  flight, 

*  Dapcs  incnilas     .     .     . — I  Ton. 


148  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Culling  unnumbered  sweets  from  nameless  flowers, 
That  scent  the  vineyard  in  its  purple  hours. 

Rise,  ere  the  watch-relieving  clarions  play, 
Caught  thro'  St.  James's  groves  at  blush  of  day  ; 
Ere  its  full  voice  the  choral  anthem  flings 
Thro'  trophied  tombs  of  heroes  and  of  kings. 
Haste  to  the  tranquil  shade  of  learned  ease,* 
Tho'  skilled  alike  to  dazzle  and  to  please ; 
Tho'  each  gay  scene  be  searched  with  anxious  eye, 
Nor  thy  shut  door  be  passed  without  a  sigh. 

If,  when  this  roof  shall  know  thy  friend  no  more, 
Some,    formed    like    thee,    should    once,    like    thee, 

explore  ; 
Invoke  the  lares  of  his  loved  retreat, 
And  his  lone  walks  imprint  with  pilgrim-feet ; 
Then  be  it  said,  (as,  vain  of  better  days, 
Some  gray  domestic  prompts  the  partial  praise) 
"  Unknown  he  lived,  unenvied,  not  unblest ; 
Reason  his  guide,  and  Happiness  his  guest. 
In  the  clear  mirror  of  his  moral  page. 
We  trace  the  manners  of  a  purer  age. 

*  JniiocLias  aiiiu  clelicias  doctauiqiic  quietcni. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  149 

His  soul,  with  thirst  of  genuine  glory  fraught, 
Scorned  the  false  lustre  of  licentious  thought. 
— One  fair  asylum  from  the  world  he  knew, 
One  chosen  seat,  that  charms  with  various  view ! 
Who  boasts  of  more  (believe  the  serious  strain) 
Sighs  for  a  home,  and  sighs,  alas!  in  vain. 
Thro'  each  he  roves,  the  tenant  of  a  day, 
And,  with  the  swallow,  wings  the  year  away !" 


NOTES. 


p.  140,  1.  9. 
Oft  o'er  the  7ncad,  at  j^kasvng  distance,  pass 

Cosmo  of  Medicis  took  most  pleasure  in  his  Aperaiine 
villa,  because  all  that  he  commanded  from  its  windows  was 
exclusively  his  own.  How  unlike  the  wise  Athenian,  who, 
when  he  had  a  farm  to  sell,  directed  the  crier  to  proclaim, 
as  its  best  recommendation,  that  it  had  a  good  neighbour- 
hood ! — Plut.  in  Vit.  Themist. 

P.  140,  1.  19. 
And  through  the  veer  ions  year,  the  various  do/ij, 

Horace  commends  the  house,  "  longos  qua3  prospicit  agros." 
Distant  views  contain  the  greatest  variety,  both  in  themselves, 
and  in  their  accidental  variations. 

P.  141,  1.  21. 

Hinedl  cliemge  of  sccjic,  sma/l  sjmce  his  home  rcq^iires. 

Many  a  great  man,  in  passing  through  the  apartments  of  his 
palace,  has  made  the  melancholy  reflection  of  the  venerable 


152  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Cosmo :  "  Qucsta  ^  troppo  gran  casa  a  si  poca  famiglia." — 
Mach.  1st.  Fior.  lib.  vii. 

"  Parva,  sed  apta  mihi,"  was  Ariosto's  inscription  over  his 
door  in  Ferrara ;  and  who  can  wish  to  say  more  1  "I  con- 
fess," says  Cowley,  "  I  love  littleness  almost  in  all  things.  A 
little  convenient  estate,  a  little  cheerful  house,  a  little  company, 
and  a  very  little  feast." — Essay  vi. 

When  Socrates  was  asked  why  he  had  built  for  himself  so 
small  a  house :  "  Small  as  it  is,"  he  replied,  "  I  wish  I  could 
fill  it  with  friends." — Pna^DRUs,  iii.  9. 

These  indeed  are  all  that  a  wise  man  can  desire  to  assemble; 

"  for  a  crowd  is  not  company,  and  faces  are  but  a  gallery  of 

pictures,  and  talk  but  a  tinkling   cymbal,  where  there  is  no 

love." 

P.  141,  1.  24. 

From  every  point  a  ray  of  genius  flows  ! 

By  these  means,  when  all  nature  wears  a  lowering  coun- 
tenance, I  withdraw  myself  into  the  visionary  worlds  of  art ; 
where  I  meet  with  shining  landscapes,  gilded  triumphs,  beauti- 
ful faces,  and  all  those  other  objects  that  fill  the  mind  with 
gay  ideas. — Addison. 

It  is  remarkable  that  Antony,  in  his  adversity,  passed  some 
time  in  a  small  but  splendid  retreat,  which  he  called  his 
Timonium,  and  from  which  might  originate  the  idea  of  the 
Parisian  Boudoir,  that  favourite  apartment,  ou  Von  se  retire 
pour  etre  seul,  mais  oh  Von  ne  houde  point. — Strabo,  1.  xvii. 
Plut.  in  Vit.  Anton. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  153 

P.  142,  1.  IG. 
At  GuiDo's  call,  ^'C. 

Alluding  to  his  celebrated  fresco  in  the  Rospigliosi  Palace 

at  Rome. 

P.  142,  1.  23. 

And  still  the  Fciv  best  loved  and  most  revered 

The  dining-room  is  dedicated  to  Conviviality ;  or,  as  Cicero 
somewhere  expresses  it,  "  Communitati  vitee  atque  victus." 
There  we  wish  most  for  the  society  of  our  friends ;  and, 
perhaps,  in  their  absence,  most  require  their  portraits. 

The  moral  advantages  of  this  furniture  may  be  illustrated 
by  the  story  of  an  Athenian  courtesan,  who,  in  the  midst  of  a 
riotous  banquet  with  her  lovers,  accidentally  cast  her  eye  on 
the  portrait  of  a  philosopher,  that  hung  opposite  to  her  seat; 
the  happy  character  of  wisdom  and  virtue  struck  her  with 
so  lively  an  image  of  her  own  unworthiness,  that  she  instantly 
left  the  room ;  and,  retiring  home,  became  ever  afterwards  an 
example  of  temperance,  as  she  had  been  before  of  debauchery. 

P.  142,  1.  24. 
Rise  roamd  tite  board 


"A  long  table  and  a  square  table,"  says  Bacon,  "seem 
things  of  form,  but  arc  things  of  substance ;  for  at  a  long 
table  a  few  at  the  upper  end,  in  effect,  sway  all  the  business.'' 
Perhaps  Arthur  was  right,  when  he  instituted  the  order  of  the 
round  table.     In  the  town-house  of  Aix-la-Chapelle  is  still  to 

20 


164  ROGERS*   POEMS. 

be  seen  the  round  table,  which  may  almost  literally  be  said  to 
have  given  peace  to  Europe  in  1748.  Nor  is  it  only  at  a 
congress  of  Plenipotentiaries  that  place  gives  precedence. 

P.  143,  1.  4. 
Read  ancient  books,  or  dream  inspiring  dreams; 

Before  I  begin  to  write,  says  Bossuet,  I  always  read  a  little 
of  Homer ;  for  I  love  to  light  my  lamp  at  the  sun. 

The  reader  will  here  remember  that  passage  of  Horace, 
JVunc  veterum  libris,  nunc  somno,  ^c,  which  was  inscribed  by 
Lord  Chesterfield  on  the  frieze  of  his  library. 

P.  143,  1.  5. 
And,  ivJien  a  sage^s  bust  arrests  thee  here, 

Siquidem  non  solum  ex  auro  argentove,  aut  certe  ex  sere 
in  bibliothecis  dicantur  illi,  quorum  immortales  animae  in  iis- 
dem  locis  ibi  loquuntur  :  quinimo  etiam  quae  non  sunt,  finguntur, 
pariuntque  desideria  non  traditi  vultus,  sicut  in  Homero  evenit. 
Quo  majus  (ut  equidem  arbitror)  nullum  est  felicitatis  speci- 
men, quam  semper  omnes  scire  cupere,  qualis  fuerit  aliquis. — 
Plin.  Nat.  Hist. 

Cicero,  in  his  dialogue  entitled  Brutus,  represents  Brutus 
and  Atticus  as  sitting  down  with  him  in  his  garden  at  Rome, 
by  the  statue  of  Plato ;  and  with  what  delight  does  he  speak 
of  a  little  seat  under  Aristotle  in  the  library  of  Atticus ! 
"Literis   sustentor  et  recreor;   maloque  in  ilia  tua  sedecula, 


ROGERS'  POEMS.  155 

quani  habes  sub  imagine  Aristotelis,  sedere,  quam  in  istorum 
sella  curuli!" — Ep.  ad  Att.  iv.  10. 

Nor  should  we  forget  that  Dryden  drew  inspiration  from  the 
"  majestic  face"  of  Shakspeare  ;  and  that  a  portrait  of  Newton 
was  the  only  ornament  of  the  closet  of  Buffon. — Ep.  to  Kneller. 
Voyage  a  Montbart.  ^ 

In  the  chamber  of  a  man  of  genius  we 

Write  all  down : 
Such  and  such  pictures ; — there  the  window ; 

the  arras,  figures, 

Why,  such  and  such. 

P.  143,  1.  9. 
Wliich  gathers  round  the  Wise  of  every  Tongue, 

Quis  tantis  non  gaudeat  et  glorietur  hospitibus,  exclaims 
Petrarch. — Spectare,  etsi  nihil  aliud,  certe  juvat. — Homerus 
apud  me  mutus,  imo  vero  ego  apud  ilium  surd  us  sum.  Gaudeo 
tamen  vel  aspectu  solo,  et  ssepe  ilium  amplexus  ac  suspirans 
dico :  O  magne  vir,  &c. — Epist.  Var.  lib.  20. 

P.  144,  1.  2. 
As  her  fair  self  reflected  seems  to  rise  !  ■' 

After  line  18,  in  a  former  edition. 

But  hence  away  !  yon  rocky  cave  beware  ! 
A  sullen  captive  broods  in  silence  there ! 
There,  tho'  the  dog-star  flame,  condemned  to  dwell 
In  the  dark  centre  of  its  inmost  cell, 


156  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Wild  Winter  ministers  his  dread  control 
To  cool  and  crystallize  the  nectared  bowl. 
His  faded  form  an  awful  grace  retains ; 
Stern  tho'  subdued,  majestic  tho'  in  chains ! 

P.  141,  1.  5. 

These  eyelids  open  to  ike  risivg  ray, 

Your  bed-chamber,  and  also  your  library,  says  Vitruvius, 
should  have  an  eastern  aspect ;  usiis  enim  matutinum  postulat 
lumen.  Not  so  the  picture-gallery ;  which  requires  a  north 
light,  uti  colores  in  ope,  propter  constantiam  luminis,  immutata, 
permaneant  qualitate.  This  disposition  accords  with  his  plan 
of  a  Grecian  house. 

r.  144,  1.  19. 
Like  those  blest  Youths, 

See  the  Legend  of  the  Seven  Sleepers. — Gibbo\,  c.  33. 

P.  145,  1.  8. 

.     zvith  knoivlcdge  health  ; 

Milton  "  was  up  and  stirring,  ere  the  sound  of  any  bell 
awaked  men  to  labour,  or  to  devotion ;"  and  it  is  related  of 
two  Students  in  a  suburb  of  Paris,  who  were  opposite  neigh- 
bours, and  were  called  the  morning-star  and  the  evening-star — 
the  former  appearing  just  as  the  latter  withdrew — that  the 
morning-star  continued  to  shine  on,  when  the  evening-star 
was  gone  out  for  ever. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  157 

P.  115,  1.  IG. 

Catch  the  blest  accents  of  the  wise  and  great. 

Mr.  Pope  delights  in  enumerating  his  illustrious  guests.  Nor 
is  this  an  exclusive  privilege  of  the  Poet.  The  Medici  Palace 
at  Florence  exhibits  a  long  and  imposing  catalogue.  "  Semper 
hi  parietes  columnaeque  eruditis  vocibus  resonuerunt." 

P.  147,  1.  4. 

Sheds,  like  an  cve?iing-siar,  its  ray  serene. 

At  a  Roman  supper  statues  were  sometimes  employed  to 

hold  the  lamps. 

— aurea  sunt  juvenum  simulacra  per  Bedes, 
Lampadas  igniferas  manibus  retinentia  dextris. 

LucR.  ii.  24. 

A  fashion  as  old  as  Homer! — Odyss.  vii.  100. 

On  the  proper  degree  and  distribution  of  light  we  may  con- 
sult a  great  master  of  effect.  II  lume  grande,  ed  alto,  e  non 
troppo  potente,  sara  quello,  che  rendera  le  parlicole  de'  corpi 
molto  grate. — Tratt.  della  Pittura  di  Lionardo  da  Vinci,  c.  xli. 

Hence  every  artist  requires  a  broad  and  high  light.  Michael 
Angelo  used  to  work  with  a  candle  fixed  in  his  hat. — Condi vi. 
Vita  di  Michelagnolo. — Hence  also,  in  a  banquet-scene,  the 
most  picturesque  of  all  poets  has  thrown  his  light  from  the 
ceiling. — iEn.  i.  72G. 

And  hence  the  "  starry-lamps"  of  Milton,  that 

.     .     .     .     from  the  arclied  roof 
Pendent  by  subtle  magic,     .... 

yielded  light 

As  from  a  sky. 


158  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

P.  147,  1.  14. 
Beyond  the  triumphs  of  a  LorioVs  art. 

At  the  petits  soupes  of  Choisy  were  first  introduced  those 
admirable  pieces  of  mechanism,  afterwards  carried  to  per- 
fection by  Loriot,  the  Confidente  and  the  Servante;  a  table 
and  a  sideboard,  which  descended,  and  rose  again  covered 
with  viands  and  wines.  And  thus  the  most  luxurious  Court 
in  Europe,  after  all  its  boasted  refinements,  was  glad  to  return 
at  last,  by  this  singular  contrivance,  to  the  quiet  and  privacy 
of  humble  life. — Vie  Privee  de  Louis  XV.  ii.  43. 

Between  line  30  and  line  31  were  these  lines,  since  omitted  : 

Hail,  sweet  Society !  in  crowds  unknown, 
Though  the  vain  world  would  claim  thee  for  its  own. 
Still  where  thy  small  and  cheerful  converse  flows, 
Be  mine  to  enter,  ere  the  circle  close. 
When  in  retreat  Fox  lays  his  thunder  by, 
And  wit  and  Taste  their  mingled  charms  supply ; 
When  SiDDONS,  born  to  melt  and  freeze  the  heart. 
Performs  at  home  her  more  endearing  part ; 
When  He,  who  best  interprets  to  mankind 
The  winged  messengers  from  mind  to  mind, 
Leans  on  his  spade,  and,  playful  as  profound, 
His  genius  sheds  its  evening-sunshine  round. 
Be  mine  to  listen ;  pleased  yet  not  elate. 
Ever  too  modest  or  too  proud  to  rate 
Myself  by  my  companions. 
They  were  written  in  1796. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  159 

P.  147,  I.  19. 
So  thro'  tlie  vales  of  Loire  the  hee-hives  glide. 

An  allusion  to  the  floating  bee-house,  which  is  seen  in  some 
parts  of  France  and  Piedmont. 

P.  148,  1.  2. 

Caught  thro''  St.  James's  graves  at  blush  of  day; 

After  line  42  in  the  MS. 

Groves  that  BeHnda's  star  illumines  still, 
And  ancient  Courts  and  faded  splendours  fill. 

See  the  Rape  of  the  Lock.    Canto  V. 

P.  149,  1.  6. 

And,  with  the  swallow,  ivings  the  year  aivay  ! 

It  was  the  boast  of  LucuUus  that  he  changed  his  climate 
with  the  birds  of  passage. 

How  often  must  he  have  felt  the  truth  here  inculcated,  that 
the  master  of  many  houses  has  no  home ! 


JACQUELINE. 


JACQUELINE. 
I. 

'Twas  Autumn  ;  thro'  Provence  had  ceased 

The  vintage,  and  the  vintage-feast. 

The  sun  had  set  behind  the  hill, 

The  moon  was  up,  and  all  was  still, 

And  from  the  Convent's  neighbouring  tower 

The  clock  had  tolled  the  midn  ight-hour, 

When  Jacqueline  came  forth  alone, 

Her  kerchief  o'er  her  tresses  thrown  ; 

A  guilty  thing  and  full  of  fears, 

Yet  ah,  how  lovely  in  her  tears ! 

She  starts,  and  what  has  caught  her  eye  ? 

What — but  her  shadow  gliding  by  ? 

She  stops,  she  pants  ;  with  lips  apart 

She  listens — to  her  beating  heart ! 

Then,  thro'  the  scanty  orchard  stealing, 

The  clustering  boughs  her  track  concealing. 


1G4  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

She  flics,  nor  casts  a  thought  behind, 

But  gives  her  terrors  to  the  wind ; 

Flies  from  her  home,  the  humble  sphere 

Of  all  her  joys  and  sorrows  here, 

Her  father's  house  of  mountain-stone, 

And  by  a  mountain-vine  o'crgrown. 

At  such  an  hour  in  such  a  night, 

So  calm,  so  clear,  so  heavenly  bright. 

Who  would  have  seen,  and  not  confessed 

It  looked  as  all  within  were  blest  ? 

What  will  not  woman,  when  she  loves  ? 

Yet  lost,  alas !  who  can  restore  her  ? — 

She  lifts  the  latch,  the  wicket  moves  ; 

And  now  the  world  is  all  before  her. 

Up  rose  St.  Pierre,  when  morning  shone  ; 

— And  Jacqueline,  his  child,  was  gone  ! 

Oh  what  the  madd'ning  thought  that  came  ? 

Dishonour  coupled  with  his  name  ! 

By  Conde  at  Rocroy  he  stood ; 

By  Turenne,  when  the  Rhine  ran  blood. 

Two  banners  of  Castile  he  gave 

Aloft  in  Notre  Dame  to  wave  ; 

Nor  did  thy  cross,  St.  Louis,  rest 

Upon  a  purer,  nobler  breast. 


ROGERS'   POEMS.  165 

He  slung  his  old  sword  by  his  side, 

And  snatched  his  staff  and  rushed  to  save  ; 

Then  sunk — and  on  his  threshold  cried, 

"  Oh  lay  me  in  my  grave  ! 

— Constance !  Claudine  !  where  were  ye  then  ? 

But  stand  not  there.     Away  !  away  ! 

Thou,  Frederic,  by  thy  father  stay. 

Though  old,  and  now  forgot  of  men, 

Both  must  not  leave  him  in  a  day." 

Then,  and  he  shook  his  hoary  head, 

"  Unhappy  in  thy  youth  !"  he  said. 

"  Call  as  thou  wilt,  thou  call'st  in  vain  ; 

No  voice  sends  back  thy  name  again. 

To  mourn  is  all  thou  hast  to  do  ; 

Thy  playmate  lost,  and  teacher  too." 


And  who  but  she  could  soothe  the  boy, 
Or  turn  his  tears  to  tears  of  joy  ? 
Long  had  she  kissed  him  as  he  slept. 
Long  o'er  his  pillow  hung  and  wept ; 
And,  as  she  passed  her  father's  door. 
She  stood  as  she  would  stir  no  more. 
But  she  is  gone,  and  gone  for  ever ! 
No,  never  shall  they  clasp  her — never ! 


1 66  R  O  G  E  R  S  '   P  O  E  M  S. 

They  sit  and  listen  to  their  fears ; 
And  he,  who  through  the  breach  had  led 
Over  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
Shakes  if  a  cricket's  cry  he  hears ! 

Oh  !  she  was  good  as  she  was  fair. 
None — none  on  earth  above  her  ! 
As  pure  in  thought  as  angels  are, 
To  know  her  was  to  love  her. 
When  little,  and  her  eyes,  her  voice, 
Her  every  gesture  said,  "  rejoice," 
Her  coming  was  a  gladness  ; 
And,  as  she  grew,  her  modest  grace. 
Her  downcast  look  'twas  heaven  to  trace, 
When,  shading  with  her  hand  her  face, 
She  half  inclined  to  sadness. 
Her  voice,  whate'er  she  said,  enchanted  ; 
Like  music  to  the  heart  it  went. 
And  her  dark  eyes — how  eloquent !    ' 
Ask  what  they  would,  'twas  granted. 
Her  father  loved  her  as  his  fame  ; 
— And  Bayard's  self  had  done  the  same  ! 

Soon  as  the  sun  the  glittering  pane 
On  the  red  floor  in  diamonds  threw, 
His  songs  she  sung  and  sung  again, 
Till  the  last  light  withdrew. 


ROGERS'   POEMS.  167 

But  she  is  dead  to  him,  to  all  I 
Her  lute  hangs  silent  on  the  wall  ; 
And  on  the  stairs,  and  at  the  door 
Her  fairy-step  is  heard  no  more  ! 
At  every  meal  an  empty  chair 
Tells  him  that  she  is  not  there  ; 
She,  who  would  lead  him  where  he  went, 
Charm  with  her  converse  while  he  leant ; 
Or,  hovering,  every  wish  prevent ; 
At  eve  light  up  the  chimney-nook, 
Lay  there  his  glass  within  his  book  ; 
And  that  small  chest  of  curious  mould, 
(Queen  Mab's,  perchance,  in  days  of  old,) 
Tusk  of  elephant  and  gold  ; 
Which,  when  a  tale  is  long,  dispenses 
Its  fragrant  dust  to  drowsy  senses. 
In  her  who  mourned  not,  when  they  missed  her, 
The  old  a  child,  the  young  a  sister  ? 
No  more  the  orphan  runs  to  take 
From  her  loved  hand  the  barley-cake. 
No  more  the  matron  in  the  school 
Expects  her  in  the  hour  of  rule, 
To  sit  amid  the  elfin  brood. 
Praising  the  busy  and  the  good. 


168  ROGERS'   POEMS. 

The  widow  trims  her  hearth  in  vain. 

She  comes  not — nor  will  come  again. 

Not  now,  his  little  lesson  done, 

With  Frederic  blowing  bubbles  in  the  sun  ; 

Nor  spinning  by  the  fountain-side, 

(Some  story  of  the  days  of  old, 

Barbe  Bleue  or  Chaperon  Rouge  hall-told 

To  him  who  would  not  be  denied ;) 

Not  now,  to  while  an  hour  away, 

Gone  to  the  falls  in  Valembro, 

Where  'tis  night  at  noon  of  day  ; 

Nor  wandering  up  and  down  the  wood. 

To  all  but  her  a  solitude. 

Where  once  a  wild  deer,  wild  no  more, 

Her  chaplet  on  his  antlers  wore. 

And  at  her  bidding  stood. 

II. 
The  day  was  in  the  golden  west ; 
And,  curtained  close  by  leaf  and  flower, 
The  doves  had  cooed  themselves  to  rest 
In  Jacqueline's  deserted  bower ; 
The  doves — that  still  would  at  her  casement  peck, 
And  in  her  walks  had  ever  fluttered  round 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  169 

With  purple  feet  and  shining  neck, 
True  as  the  echo  to  the  sound. 
That  casement,  underneath  the  trees, 
Half  open  to  the  western  breeze, 
Looked  down,  enchanting  Garonnelle, 
Thy  wild  and  mulberry-shaded  dell. 
Round  which  the  Alps  of  Piedmont  rose, 
The  blush  of  sunset  on  their  snows  : 
While,  blithe  as  lark  on  summer-morn, 
When  green  and  yellow  waves  the  corn, 
When  harebells  blow  in  every  grove, 
And  thrushes  sing  "  I  love !  1  love  !" 
Within  (so  soon  the  early  rain 
Scatters,  and  'tis  fair  again  ; 
Though  many  a  drop  may  yet  be  seen 
To  tell  us  where  a  cloud  has  been) 
Within  lay  Frederic,  o'er  and  o'er 
Building  castles  on  the  floor. 
And  feigning,  as  they  grew  in  size. 
New  troubles  and  new  dangers ; 
With  dimpled  cheeks  and  laughing  eyes, 
As  he  and  Fear  were  strangers. 

St.  Pierre  sat  by,  nor  saw  nor  smiled. 
His  eyes  were  on  his  loved  Montaigne  ; 
But  every  leaf  was  turned  in  vain. 

22 


1  70  R  O  G  E  R  S  '    P  O  E  M  S. 

Then  in  that  hour  remorse  he  felt, 
And  his  heart  told  him  he  had  dealt 
Unkindly  with  his  child. 
A  father  may  awhile  refuse ; 
But  who  can  for  another  choose  ? 
When  her  young  blushes  had  revealed 
The  secret  from  herself  concealed, 
Why  promise  what  her  tears  denied. 
That  she  should  be  De  Courcy's  bride  ? 
— Wouldst  thou,  presumptuous  as  thou  art, 
O'er  Nature  play  the  tyrant's  part. 
And  with  the  hand  compel  the  heart  ? 
Oh  rather,  rather  hope  to  bind 
The  ocean-wave,  the  mountain-wind  ; 
Or  fix  thy  foot  upon  the  ground 
To  stop  the  planet  rolling  round. 

The  light  was  on  his  face  ;  and  there 
You  might  have  seen  the  passions  driven — 
Resentment,  Pity,  Hope,  Despair — 
Like  clouds  across  the  face  of  Heaven. 
Now  he  sighed  heavily  ;  and  now. 
His  hand  withdrawing  from  his  brow, 
He  shut  the  volume  with  a  frown, 
To  walk  his  troubled  spirit  down  : 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  171 

— When  (faithful  as  that  dog  of  yore* 
Who  wagged  his  tail  and  could  no  more) 
Manchon,  who  long  had  snullbd  the  ground, 
And  sought  and  sought  but  never  found, 
Leapt  up  and  to  the  casement  flew, 
And  looked  and  barked,  and  vanished  thro'. 
"  'Tis  Jacqueline !  'Tis  Jacqueline  I" 
Her  little  brother  laughing  cried. 
"  I  know  her  by  her  kirtle  green. 
She  comes  along  the  mountain-side  ; 
Now  turning  by  the  traveller's  seat, — 
Now  resting  in  the  hermit's  cave, — 
Now  kneeling,  where  the  pathways  meet. 
To  the  cross  on  the  stranger's  grave. 
And,  by  the  soldier's  cloak,  I  know 
(There,  there  along  the  ridge  they  go) 
D'Arcy  so  gentle  and  so  brave ! 
Look  up — why  will  you  not  ?"  he  cries, 
His  rosy  hands  before  his  eyes ; 
For  on  that  incense-breathing  eve 
The  sun  shone  out,  as  loth  to  leave. 
"  See — to  the  rugged  rock  she  clings ! 
She  calls,  she  faints,  and  D'Arcy  springs ; 

*  Argus. 


172  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

D'Arcy  so  dear  to  us,  to  all ; 
Who.  for  you  told  me  on  your  knee, 
When  in  the  fight  he  saw  you  fall. 
Saved  you  for  Jacqueline  and  me !" 

And  true  it  was  !     And  true  the  tale  ! 
When  did  she  sue,  and  not  prevail  ? 
Five  years  before — it  was  the  night 
That  on  the  village-green  they  parted. 
The  lilied  banners  streaming  bright 
O'er  maids  and  mothers  broken-hearted  ; 
The  drum — it  drowned  the  last  adieu, 
When  D'Arcy  from  the  crowd  she  drew. 
"  One  charge  I  have  and  one  alone, 
Nor  that  refuse  to  take. 
My  father — if  not  for  his  own. 
Oh  for  his  daughter's  sake  !" 
Inly  he  vowed — 'twas  all  he  could  ; 
And  went  and  sealed  it  with  his  blood. 

Nor  can  ye  wonder.     When  a  child, 
And  in  her  playfulness  she  smiled. 
Up  many  a  ladder-path*  he  guided 
Where  meteor-like  the  chamois  glided, 

*  Called  in  the  language  of  the  country  Pas-de-V Echelle. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  173 

Thro'  many  a  misty  grove. 

They  loved — but  under  Friendship's  name  ; 

And  Reason,  Virtue  fanned  the  flame, 

Till  in  their  houses  Discord  came , 

And  'twas  a  crime  to  love. 

Then  what  was  Jacqueline  to  do  ? 

Her  father's  angry  hours  she  knew, 

And  when  to  soothe,  and  when  persuade  ; 

But  now  her  path  De  Courcy  crossed, 

Led  by  his  falcon  through  the  glade — 

He  turned,  beheld,  admired  the  maid  ; 

And  all  her  little  arts  were  lost ! 

De  Courcy,  Lord  of  Argentiere  ! 

Thy  poverty,  thy  pride,  St.  Pierre, 

Thy  thirst  for  vengeance  sought  the  snare. 

The  day  was  named,  the  guests  invited  ; 

The  bride-groom,  at  the  gate,  alighted  ; 

When  up  the  windings  of  the  dell, 

A  pastoral  pipe  was  heard  to  swell, 

An.d  lo,  an  humble  Piedmontese, 

Whose  music  might  a  lady  please, 

This  message  thro'  the  lattice  bore, 

(She  listened,  and  her  trembling  frame 

Told  her  at  once  from  whom  it  came) 

"  Oh  let  us  fly — to  part  no  more  I" 


174  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

III. 

That  morn  ('twas  in  Ste.  Julienne's  cell. 

As  at  Ste.  Julienne's  sacred  well 

Their  dream  of  Love  began) 

That  morn,  ere  many  a  star  was  set, 

Their  hands  had  on  the  altar  met 

Before  the  holy  man. 

— And  now,  her  strength,  her  courage  spent, 

And  more  than  half  a  penitent, 

She  comes  along  the  path  she  went. 

And  now  the  village  gleams  at  last ; 

The  woods,  the  golden  meadows  passed, 

Where,  when,  Toulouse,  thy  splendour  shone, 

The  Troubadour  would  journey  on 

Transported — or,  from  grove  to  grove, 

Framing  some  roundelay  of  love. 

Wander  till  the  day  was  gone. 

"  All  will  be  well,  my  Jacqueline ! 
Oh  tremble  not — but  trust  in  me. 
The  Good  are  better  made  by  111, 
As  odours  crushed  are  sweeter  still ; 
And  gloomy  as  thy  past  has  been, 
Bright  shall  thy  future  be !" 


•/' 


l,oa  gc  lilajK-hariJ.  I'hiladolplii; 


/  t  ;  »  1 '  r 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  175 

So  saying,  thro'  the  fragrant  shade 

Gently  along  he  led  the  maid, 

While  Manchon  round  and  round  her  played : 

And,  as  that  silent  glen  they  leave, 

Where  by  the  spring  the  pitchers  stand, 

Where  glow-worms  light  their  little  lamps  at  eve, 

And  fairies  revel  as  in  fairy-land, 

(When  Lubin  calls,  and  Blanche  steals  round, 

Her  finger  on  her  lip,  to  see  ; 

And  many  an  acorn-cup  is  found 

Under  the  greenwood  tree) 

From  every  cot  above,  below. 

They  gather  as  they  go — 

Sabot,  and  coif,  and  collerette. 

The  housewife's  prayer,  the  grandam's  blessing  ! 

Girls  that  adjust  their  locks  of  jet. 

And  look  and  look  and  linger  yet, 

The  lovely  bride  caressing  ; 

Babes  that  had  learnt  to  lisp  her  name, 

And  heroes  he  had  led  to  fame. 

But  what  felt  D'Arcy,  when  at  length 
Her  father's  gate  was  open  flung  ? 
Ah,  then  he  found  a  giant's  strength  ; 
For  round  him,  as  for  life,  she  clung ! 


176  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

And  when,  her  fit  of  weeping  o'er, 

Onward  they  moved  a  little  space, 

And  saw  an  old  man  sitting  at  the  door, 

Saw  his  wan  cheek,  and  sunken  eye 

That  seemed  to  gaze  on  vacancy. 

Then,  at  the  sight  of  that  beloved  face, 

At  once  to  fall  upon  his  neck  she  flew  ; 

But — not  encouraged — back  she  drew, 

And  trembling  stood  in  dread  suspense. 

Her  tears  her  only  eloquence ! 

All,  all — the  while — an  awful  distance  keeping  ; 

Save  D'Arcy,  who  nor  speaks  nor  stirs ; 

And  one,  his  little  hand  in  hers, 

Who  weeps  to  see  his  sister  weeping. 

Then  Jacqueline  the  silence  broke. 
She  clasped  her  father's  knees  and  spoke, 
Her  brother  kneeling  too  ; 
While  D'Arcy  as  before  looked  on, 
Tho'  from  his  manly  cheek  was  gone 
Its  natural  hue. 

"  His  praises  from  your  lips  I  heard. 
Till  my  fond  heart  was  won  ; 
And,  if  in  aught  his  Sire  has  erred. 
Oh  turn  not  from  the  Son  ! — 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  177 

She  whom  in  joy,  in  grief  you  nursed  ; 
Who  climbed  and  called  you  father  first, 
By  that  dear  name  conjures — 
On  her  you  thought — but  to  be  kind  ! 
When  looked  she  up,  but  you  inclined  ? 
These  things,  for  ever  in  her  mind, 
Oh  are  they  gone  from  yours  ? 
Two  kneeling  at  your  feet  behold ; 
One — one  how  young  ; — nor  yet  the  other  old. 
Oh  spurn  them  not — nor  look  so  cold — 
If  Jacqueline  be  cast  away. 
Her  bridal  be  her  dying  day. 
— Well,  well  might  she  believe  in  you  ! 
She  listened,  and  she  found  it  true." 
He  shook  his  aged  locks  of  snow ; 
And  twice  he  turned,  and  rose  to  go. 
She  hung ;  and  was  St.  Pierre  to  blame, 
If  tears  and  smiles  at  length  together  came? 
"  Oh  no — begone !  I'll  hear  no  more." 
But,  as  he  spoke,  his  voice  relented. 
"  That  very  look  thy  mother  wore 
When  she  implored,  and  old  Le  Roc  consented. 
True,  I  have  done,  as  well  as  suflered  wrong. 
Yet  still  I  love  him  as  my  own ! 

23 


178  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

— Nor  can'st  thou,  D'Arcy,  feel  resentment  long; 

For  she  herself  shall  plead,  and  I  atone. 

Henceforth,"  he  paused  awhile,  unmanned. 

For  D'Arcy's  tears  bedewed  his  hand ; 

"  Let  each  meet  each,  as  friend  to  friend. 

All  things  by  all  forgot,  forgiven. 

And  that  dear  Saint — may  she  once  more  descend 

To  make  our  home  a  heaven ! — 

But  now,  in  my  hands,  yours  with  hers  unite. 

A  father's  blessing  on  your  heads  alight! 

.     .     .     Nor  let  the  least  be  sent  away. 

All  hearts  shall  sing  '  Adieu  to  sorrow !' 

St.  Pierre  has  found  his  child  to-day  ; 

And  old  and  young  shall  dance  to-morrow." 


Had  Louis*  then  before  the  gate  dismounted, 
Lost  in  the  chase  at  set  of  sun ; 
Like  Henry  when  he  heard  recountedt 
The  generous  deeds  himself  had  done, 


*  Louis  the  Fourteenth. 

t  Alluding  to  a  popular  story  related  of  Henry  the  Fourth  of  France; 
similar  to  ours  of  "  The  King  and  Miller  of  Manslield." 


ROGERS'    POEMS. 


179 


(What  time  the  miller's  maid  Colette 

Sung,  while  he  supped,  her  chansonnette) 

Then — when  St.  Pierre  addressed  his  village-train, 

Then  had  the  monarch  with  a  sigh  confessed 

A  joy  by  him  unsought  and  unpossessed, 

— Without  it  what  are  all  the  rest  ? — 

To  love,  and  to  be  loved  again. 


^    LIBRARY   >i 

UNIVKKSITY  OF 

CALIFORNIA. 


ODE    TO    SUPERSTITION. 

Written  in  1785. 
I.  1. 

Hence,  to  the  realms  of  Night,  dire  Demon,  hence! 

Thy  chain  of  adamant  can  bind 

That  little  world,  the  human  mind, 
And  sink  its  noblest  powers  to  impotence. 

Wake  the  lion's  loudest  roar. 

Clot  his  shaggy  mane  with  gore. 

With  flashing  fury  bid  his  eyeballs  shine  ; 

Meek  is  his  savage,  sullen  soul,  to  thine ! 

Thy  touch,  thy  deadening  touch,  has  steeled  the 
breast. 

Whence,  thro'  her  April  shower,  soft  Pity  smiled ; 

Has  closed  the  heart  each  godlike  virtue  blessed, 

To  all  the  silent  pleadings  of  his  child.* 

At  thy  command  he  plants  the  dagger  deep, 
At  thy  command  exults,  tho'  Nature  bids  him  weep! 

''  The  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia. 


ROGERS'   POEMS.  181 

1.  2. 

When,  with  a  frown  that  froze  the  peopled  earth,* 
Thou  dartedst  thy  huge  head  from  high, 
Night  waved  her  banners  o'er  the  sky. 
And,  brooding,  gave  her  shapeless  shadows  birth. 
Rocking  on  the  billowy  air, 
Ha  !  what  withering  phantoms  glare  ! 
As  blows  the  blast  with  many  a  sudden  swell. 
At  each  dead  pause,  what  shrill-toned  voices  yell  I 
The  sheeted  spectre,  rising  from  the  tomb. 
Points  to  the  murderer's  stab,  and  shudders  by ; 
In  every  grove  is  felt  a  heavier  gloom, 
That  veils  its  genius  from  the  vulgar  eye : 
The  spirit  of  the  water  rides  the  storm, 
And,  thro'  the  mist,  reveals  the  terrors  of  his  form. 

I.  3. 
O'er  solid  seas,  where  Winter  reigns, 
And  holds  each  mountain-wave  in  chains, 
The  fur-clad  savage,  ere  he  guides  his  deer 
By  glistering  starlight  thro'  the  snow, 
Breathes  softly  in  her  wondering  ear 
Each  potent  spell  thou  bad'st  him  know. 

*  Lucretius,  I.  63. 


182  ROGERS'   POEMS. 

By  thee  inspired,  on  India's  sands, 

Full  in  the  sun  the  Bramin  stands ; 

And,  while  the  panting  tigress  hies 

To  quench  her  fever  in  the  stream, 

His  spirit  laughs  in  agonies, 
Smit  by  the  scorchings  of  the  noontide  beam. 

Mark  who  mounts  the  sacred  pyre,* 

Blooming  in  her  bridal  vest  : 
She  hurls  the  torch  I  she  fans  the  fire ! 
To  die  is  to  be  blest : 

She  clasps  her  lord  to  part  no  more, 

And,  sighing,  sinks !  but  sinks  to  soar. 

O'ershadowing  Scotia's  desert  coast, 

The  Sisters  sail  in  dusky  state,t 

And,  wrapt  in  clouds,  in  tempests  tost, 
Weave  the  airy  web  of  Fate ; 
While  the  lone  shepherd,  near  the  shipless  main,J 
Sees  o'er  her  hills  advance  the  long-drawn  funeral  train. 

*  The  funeral  rite  of  the  Hindoos. 

t  The  Fates  of  the  Northern  Mythology.     See  Mallett's  Antiquities. 

I  An  allusion  to  the  Second  Sight. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  183 

II.  1. 

Thou  spak'st,  and  lo !  a  new  creation  glowed. 

Each  unhewn  mass  of  living  stone 

Was  clad  in  horrors  not  its  own, 
And  at  its  base  the  trembling  nations  bowed. 

Giant  Error,  darkly  grand, 

Grasped  the  globe  with  iron  hand. 
Circled  with  seats  of  bliss,  the  Lord  of  Light 
Saw  prostrate  worlds  adore  his  golden  height. 
The  statue,  waking  with  immortal  powers,* 
Springs  from  its  parent  earth,  and  shakes  the  spheres; 
The  indignant  pyramid  sublimely  towers, 
And  braves  the  efforts  of  a  host  of  years. 
Sweet  Music  breathes  her  soul  into  the  wind ; 
And  bright-eyed  Painting  stamps  the  image  of  the  mind. 

II.  2. 
Round  the  rude  ark  old  Egypt's  sorcerers  rise! 
A  timbrelled  anthem  swells  the  gale, 
And  bids  the  God  of  Thunders  hail  ;t 
With  lowings  loud  the  captive  God  replies. 
Clouds  of  incense  woo  thy  smile, 
Scaly  monarch  of  the  Nile  !J 

*  iEn.  II.  172,  &c.  t  The  bull,  Apis.  '  |  The  crocodile. 


184  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

But  ah !  what  myriads  claim  the  bended  knee  ?* 
Go,  count  the  busy  drops  that  swell  the  sea. 
Proud  land !  what  eye  can  trace  thy  mystic  lore, 
Locked  up  in  characters  as  dark  as  night  ?t 
What  eye  those  long,  long  labyrinths  dare  explore,^ 
To  which  the  parted  soul  oft  wings  her  flight ; 
Again  to  visit  her  cold  cell  of  clay, 
Charmed  with  perennial  sweets,  and  smiling  at  decay? 

II.  3. 

On  yon  hoar  summit,  mildly  bright§ 

With  purple  ether's  liquid  light, 
High  o'er  the  world,  the  white-robed  Magi  gaze 
On  dazzling  bursts  of  heavenly  fire  ; 
Start  at  each  blue,  portentous  blaze. 
Each  flame  that  flits  with  adverse  spire. 
But  say,  what  sounds  my  ear  invade 
From  Delphi's  venerable  shade  ? 
The  temple  rocks,  the  laurel  waves ! 
"  The  God !  the  God  !"  the  Sibyl  cries.|| 

*  According  to  an  ancient  proverb,  it  was  less  diffioilt  in  Egypt  to  find 
a  god  than  a  man. 

t  The  Hieroglyphics.  \  The  Catacombs. 

5  "  The  Persians,"  says  Herodotus,  "  have  no  temples,  altars,  or  statues. 
They  sacrifice  on  the  tops  of  the  highest  mountains."     I.  131. 

II  yEn.  VI.  40,  &,c. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  185 

Her  figure  swells  !  she  foams,  she  raves ! 
fler  figure  swells  to  more  than  mortal  size ! 

Streams  of  rapture  roll  along, 

Silver  notes  ascend  the  skies  : 
Wake,  Echo,  wake  and  catch  the  song, 
Oh  catch  it,  ere  it  dies! 

The  Sibyl  speaks,  the  dream  is  o'er, 

The  holy  harpings  charm  no  more. 

s 

In  vain  she  checks  the  God's  control ; 
His  madding  spirit  fills  her  frame, 
And  moulds  the  features  of  her  soul, 
Breathing  a  prophetic  flame. 
The  cavern  frowns  ;  its  hundred  mouths  unclose  I 
And,  in  the  thunder's  voice,  the  fate  of  empire  flows! 

III.  1. 
Mona,  thy  Druid-rites  awake  the  dead  ! 
Rites  thy  brown  oaks  would  never  dare 
Even  whisper  to  the  idle  air ; 
Rites  that  have  chained  old  Ocean  on  his  bed. 
Shivered  by  thy  piercing  glance, 
Pointless  falls  the  hero's  lance. 
Thy  magic  bids  the  imperial  eagle  fly,* 
And  blasts  the  laureate  wreath  of  victory. 

*  See  Tacitus,  1.  xiv.  c.  29. 
24 


186  ROGERS'    P0E3IS. 

Hark,  the  bard's  soul  inspires  the  vocal  string! 
At  every  pause  dread  Silence  hovers  o'er : 
While  murky  Night  sails  round  on  raven  wing, 
Deepening  the  tempest's  howl,  the  torrent's  roar ; 
Chased  by  the  Morn  from  Snowdon's  awful  brow, 
Where  late  she  sate  and  scowled  on  the  black  wave 
below. 

III.  2. 

Lo,  steel-clad  War  his  gorgeous  standard  rears ! 

The  red-cross  squadrons  madly  rage,* 

And  mow  thro'  infancy  and  age ; 
Then  kiss  the  sacred  dust  and  melt  in  tears. 

Veiling  from  the  eye  of  day. 

Penance  dreams  her  life  away  ; 
In  cloistered  solitude  she  sits  and  sighs. 
While  from  each  shrine  still,  small  responses  rise. 
Hear  with  what  heartfelt  beat  the  midnight  bell 
Swings  its  low  summons  thro'  the  hollow  pile  ! 
The  weak,  wan  votarist  leaves  her  twilight  cell, 
To  walk,  with  taper  dim,  the  winding  aisle ; 
With  choral  chantings  vainly  to  aspire 
Beyond  this  nether  sphere,  on  Rapture's  wing  of  fire. 

*  This  remarkable  event  happened  at  the  siege  and  sack  of  Jerusalem 
in  the  last  year  of  tho  eleventh  century.     Matth.  I'aris,  IV.  2. 


1     ^- 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  187 

III.  a 

Lord  of  each  pang  the  nerves  can  feel, 

Hence  with  the  rack  and  reeking  wheel. 
Faith  lifts  the  soul  above  this  little  ball ! 

While  gleams  of  glory  open  round, 

And  circling  choirs  of  angels  call. 

Canst  thou,  with  all  thy  terrors  crowned, 

Hope  to  obscure  that  latent  spark, 

Destined  to  shine  when  suns  are  dark  ? 

Thy  triumphs  cease !  thro'  every  land, 

Hark  !  Truth  proclaims,  thy  triumphs  cease  ! 

Her  heavenly  form,  with  glowing  hand, 
Benignly  points  to  piety  and  peace. 

Flushed  with  youth,  her  looks  impart 
Each  fine  feeling  as  it  flows ;     , 

Her  voice  the  echo  of  a  heart 
Pure  as  the  mountain-snows  : 

Celestial  transports  round  her  play. 

And  softly,  sweetly  die  away. 

She  smiles !  and  where  is  now  the  cloud 

That  blackened  o'er  thy  baleful  reign  ? 

Grim  darkness  furls  his  leaden  shroud. 
Shrinking  from  her  glance  in  vain. 

Her  touch  unlocks  the  day-spring  from  above, 
And  lo  I  it  visits  man  with  beams  of  light  and  love. 


WRITTEN    TO   BE    SPOKEN   BY 

MRS.  SIDDONS.* 

Yes,  'tis  the  pulse  of  life  !  my  fears  were  vain  ; 
I  wake,  I  breathe,  and  am  myself  again. 
Still  in  this  nether  world  ;  no  seraph  yet ! 
Nor  walks  my  spirit,  when  the  sun  is  set, 
With  troubled  step  to  haunt  the  fatal  board, 
Where  I  died  last — by  poison  or  the  sword  ; 
Blanching  each  honest  cheek  with  deeds  of  night. 
Done  here  so  oft  by  dim  and  doubtful  light. 

To  drop  all  metaphor,  that  little  bell 
Called  back  reality,  and  broke  the  spell. 
No  heroine  claims  your  tears  with  tragic  tone  ; 
A  very  woman — scarce  restrains  her  own  ! 
Can  she,  with  fiction,  charm  the  cheated  mind, 
When  to  be  grateful  is  the  part  assigned  ? 

*  After  a  Tragedy,   perfonnod  for  her  benefit,  at  t!ie  Theatre  Royal   in 
Drury  Lane,  April  27,  179"). 


ROGERS"    POEIVIS.  189 

Ah,  no!  she  scorns  the  trappings  of  her  Art  ; 
No  theme  but  truth,  no  prompter  but  the  heart ! 

But,  Ladies,  say,  must  I  alone  unmask  ? 
Is  here  no  other  actress,  let  me  ask. 
Believe  me,  those,  who  best  the  heart  dissect, 
Know  every  Woman  studies  stage-effect. 
She  moulds  her  manners  to  the  part  she  fills, 
As  Instinct  teaches,  or  as  Humour  wills ; 
And,  as  the  grave  or  gay  her  talent  calls, 
Acts  in  the  drama,  till  the  curtain  falls. 

First,  how  her  little  breast  with  triumph  swells. 
When  the  red  coral  rings  its  golden  bells! 
To  play  in  pantomime  is  then  the  rage. 
Along  the  carpet's  many-coloured  stage  ; 
Or  lisp  her  merry  thoughts  with  loud  endeavour, 
Now  here,  now  there, — in  noise  and  mischief  ever  I 

A  school-girl  next,  she  curls  her  hair  in  papers, 
And  mimics  father's  gout,  and  mother's  vapours ; 
Discards  her  doll,  bribes  Betty  for  romances  ; 
Playful  at  church,  and  serious  when  she  dances  ; 
Tramples  alike  on  customs  and  on  toes. 
And  whispers  all  she  hears  to  all  she  knows ; 
Terror  of  caps,  and  wigs,  and  sober  notions ! 
A  romp  !  that  longest  of  perpetual  motions  I 


190  ROdERS'    POEMS. 

— Till  tamed  and  tortured  into  foreign  graces, 
She  sports  her  lovely  face  at  public  places  ; 
And  with  blue,  laughing  eyes,  behind  her  fan, 
First  acts  her  part  with  that  great  actor,  Man. 

Too  soon  a  flirt,  approach  her  and  she  flies ! 
Frowns  when  pursued,  and,  when  entreated,  sighs! 
Plays  with  unhappy  men  as  cats  with  mice ; 
Till  fading  beauty  hints  the  late  advice. 
Her  prudence  dictates  what  her  pride  disdained, 
And  now  she  sues  to  slaves  herself  had  chained  ! 

Then  comes  that  good  old  character,  a  Wife, 
With  all  the  dear,  distracting  cares  of  life  ; 
A  thousand  cards  a  day  at  doors  to  leave, 
And,  in  return,  a  thousand  cards  receive  ; 
Rouge  high,  play  deep,  to  lead  the  ton  aspire. 
With  nightly  blaze  set  Portland  Place  on  fire  ; 
Snatch  half  a  glimpse  at  Concert,  Opera,  Ball, 
A  meteor,  traced  by  none,  tho'  seen  by  all ; 
And,  when  her  shattered  nerves  forbid  to  roam. 
In  very  spleeii — rehearse  the  girls  at  home. 

Last  the  gray  Dowager,  in  ancient  flounces. 
With  snufl"  and  spectacles  the  age  denounces  ; 
Boasts  how  the  Sires  of  this  degenerate  Isle 
Knelt  for  a  look,  and  duelled  for  a  smile. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  191 

The  scourge  and  ridicule  of  Goth  and  Vandal, 
Her  tea  she  sweetens,  as  she  sips,  with  scandal ; 
With  modern  Belles  eternal  warfare  wages. 
Like  her  own  birds  that  clamour  from  their  cages  ; 
And  shuffles  round  to  bear  her  tale  to  all, 
Like  some  old  Ruin,  "  nodding  to  its  fall !" 

Thus  Woman  makes  her  entrance  and  her  exit ; 
Not  least  an  actress  when  she  least  suspects  it. 
Yet  Nature  oft  peeps  out  and  mars  the  plot, 
Each  lesson  lost,  each  poor  pretence  forgot ; 
Full  oft,  with  energy  that  scorns  control. 
At  once  lights  up  the  features  of  the  soul  ; 
Unlocks  each  thought  chained  down  by  coward  Art, 
And  to  full  day  the  latent  passions  start ! 
— And  she,  whose  first,  best  wish  is  your  applause, 
Herself  exemplifies  the  truth  she  draws. 
Born  on  the  stage — thro'  every  shifting  scene. 
Obscure  or  bright,  tempestuous  or  serene, 
Still  has  your  smile  her  trembling  spirit  fired ! 
And  can  she  act,  with  thoughts  like  these  inspired  ? 
Thus  from  her  mind  all  artifice  she  flings, 
All  skill,  all  practice,  now  unmeaning  things ! 
To  you,  unchecked,  each  genuine  feeling  flows  ; 
For  all  that  life  endears — to  you  she  owes. 


.-* 


192  ROGERS'    POEMS. 


ON    ...    ASLEEP. 

Sleep  on,  and  dream  of  Heaven  awhile. 
Tho'  shut  so  close  thy  laughing  eyes, 
Thy  rosy  lips  still  wear  a  smile, 
And  move,  and  breathe  delicious  sighs  ! — 

Ah,  now  soft  blushes  tinge  her  cheeks, 
And  mantle  o'er  her  neck  of  snow. 
Ah,  now  she  murmurs,  now  she  speaks 
What  most  I  wish — and  fear  to  know. 

She  starts,  she  trembles,  and  she  weeps  ! 
Her  fair  hands  folded  on  her  breast. 
— And  now,  how  like  a  saint  she  sleeps  I 
A  seraph  in  the  realms  of  rest ! 

Sleep  on  secure  !     Above  control, 
Thy  thoughts  belong  to  Heaven  and  thee ! 
And  may  the  secret  of  thy  soul 
Remain  within  its  sanctuarv  I 


ROGERS'  POEMS.  193 


FROM  A  GREEK  EPIGRAM. 

While  on  the  cliff  with  calm  delight  she  kneels, 
And  the  blue  vales  a  thousand  joys  recall, 
See,  to  the  last,  last  verge  her  infant  steals ! 
O  fly — yet  stir  not,  speak  not,  lest  it  fall. 

Far  better  taught,  she  lays  her  bosom  bare, 
And  the  fond  boy  springs  back  to  nestle  there. 


FROM  EURIPIDES. 

There  is  a  streamlet  issuing  from  a  rock. 
The  village-girls  singing  wild  madrigals. 
Dip  their  white  vestments  in  its  waters  clear, 
And  hang  them  to  the  sun.     There  first  I  saw  her  ; 
There  on  that  day.     Her  dark  and  eloquent  eyes 
'Twas  heaven  to  look  upon  ;  and  her  sweet  voice 
As  tuneable  as  harp  of  many  strings, 
At  once  spoke  joy  and  sadness  to  my  soul ! 


Dear  is  that  valley  to  the  murmuring  bees  ; 
And  all,  who  know  it,  come  and  come  again. 

2.5 


194  .    ROGERS'   POEMS. 

The  small  birds  build  there  ;  and,  at  summer-noon, 
Oft  have  I  heard  a  child,  gay  among  flowers, 
As  in  the  shining  grass  she  sate  concealed. 
Sing  to  herself. 


FROM  AN  ITALIAN  SONNET. 

Love,  under  Friendship's  vesture  white. 
Laughs,  his  little  limbs  concealing  ; 
And  oft  in  sport,  and  oft  in  spite, 
Like  Pity  meets  the  dazzled  sight, 
Smiles  thro'  his  tears  revealing. 

But  now  as  Rage  the  God  appears ! 
He  frowns,  and  tempests  shake  his  frame  !- 
Frowning,  or  smiling,  or  in  tears, 
'Tis  Love  ;  and  Love  is  still  the  same. 


A  CHARACTER. 

As  thro'  the  hedge-row  shade  the  violet  steals, 
And  the  sweet  air  its  modest  leaf  reveals  ; 
Her  softer  charms,  but  by  their  influence  known, 
Surprise  all  hearts,  and  mould  them  to  her  own. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  195 


AN  EXTRACT. 

Caged  in  old  woods,  whose  reverend  echoes  wake 
When  the  hern  screams  along  the  distant  lake, 
Her  little  heart  oft  flutters  to  be  free, 
Oft  sighs  to  turn  the  unrelenting  key. 
In  vain  !  the  nurse  that  rusted  relic  wears. 
Nor  moved  by  gold — nor  to  be  moved  by  tears ; 
And  terraced  walls  their  black  reflection  throw 
On  the  green-mantled  moat  that  sleeps  below. 


A  FAREWELL. 


1797. 


Adieu  !     A  long,  a  long  adieu  I 
I  must  be  gone  while  yet  I  may. 
Oft  shall  I  weep  to  think  of  you ; 
But  here  I  will  not,  cannot  stay. 


196  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

The  sweet  expression  of  that  face, 
For  ever  changing,  yet  the  same, 
Ah  no,  I  dare  not  turn  to  trace — 
It  melts  my  soul,  it  fires  my  frame ! 

Yet  give  me,  give  me,  ere  I  go. 
One  little  lock  of  those  so  blest, 
That  lend  your  cheek  a  warmer  glow. 
And  on  your  white  neck  love  to  rest. 

— Say,  when,  to  kindle  soft  delight. 
That  hand  has  chanced  with  mine  to  meet, 
How  could  its  thrilling  touch  excite 
A  sigh  so  short,  and  yet  so  sweet  ? 

O  say — but  no,  it  must  not  be. 
Adieu  !     A  long,  a  long  adieu  ! 
— Yet  still,  methinks,  you  frown  on  me ; 
Or  never  could  I  fly  from  you. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  197 


THE  SAILOR. 

The  Sailor  sighs  as  sinks  his  native  shore, 
As  all  its  lessening  turrets  bluely  fade  ; 
He  climbs  the  mast  to  feast  his  eye  once  more, 
And  busy  fancy  fondly  lends  her  aid. 

Ah!  now,  each  dear,  domestic  scene  he  knew, 
Recalled  and  cherished  in  a  foreign  clime,    » 
Charms  with  the  magic  of  a  moonlight  view  ; 
Its  colours  mellowed,  not  impaired,  by  time. 

True  as  the  needle,  homeward  points  his  heart. 
Thro'  all  the  horrors  of  the  stormy  main ; 
This,  the  last  wish  that  would  with  life  depart, 
To  meet  the  smile  of  her  he  loves  again. 

When  Morn  first  faintly  draws  her  silver  line, 
Or  Eve's  gray  cloud  descends  to  drink  the  wave ; 
When  sea  and  sky  in  midnight-darkness  join, 
Still,  still  he  sees  the  parting  look  she  gave. 


198  ROGERS'   POEMS. 

Her  gentle  spirit,  lightly  hovering  o'er, 
Attends  his  little  bark  from  pole  to  pole ; 
And,  when  the  beating  billows  round  him  roar. 
Whispers  sweet  hope  to  soothe  his  troubled  soul. 

Carved  is  her  name  in  many  a  spicy  grove, 
In  many  a  plantain-forest,  waving  wide ; 
Where  dusky  youths  in  painted  plumage  rove, 
And  giant  palms  o'er-arch  the  golden  tide. 

But  lo,  at  last  he  comes  with  crowded  sail ! 
Lo,  o'er  the  cliff  what  eager  figures  bend ! 
And  hark,  what  mingled  murmurs  swell  the  gale ! 
In  each  he  hears  the  welcome  of  a  friend. 

— 'Tis  she,  'tis  she  herself!  she  waves  her  hand  ! 
Soon  is  the  anchor  cast,  the  canvass  furled ; 
Soon  thro'  the  whitening  surge  he  springs  to  land, 
And  clasps  the  maid  he  singled  from  the  world. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  199 


TO  AN  OLD  OAK. 

Trunk  of  a  Giant  now  no  more ! 
Once  did  thy  limbs  to  heaven  aspire  ; 
Once,  by  a  track  untried  before, 
Strike  as  resolving  to  explore 

Realms  of  infernal  fire.*  , 

Round  thee,  alas,  no  shadows  move ! 
From  thee  no  sacred  murmurs  breathe  ! 
Yet  within  thee,  thyself  a  grove, 
Once  did  the  eagle  scream  above, 
And  the  wolf  howl  beneath. 

There  once  the  steel-clad  knight  reclined, 
His  sable  plumage  tempest-tossed  ; 
And,  as  the  death-bell  smote  the  wind, 
From  towers  long  fled  by  human  kind, 
His  brow  the  hero  crossed ! 

*  Radice  in  Tartara  tciidit. — Vihg. 


200  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Then  Culture  came,  and  days  serene  ; 
And  village-sports,  and  garlands  gay. 
Full  many  a  pathway  crossed  the  green ; 
And  maids  and  shepherd-youths  were  seen 
To  celebrate  the  May. 


Father  of  many  a  forest  deep, 
Whence  many  a  navy  thunder-fraught 
Erst  in  thy  acorn-cells  asleep, 
Soon  destined  o'er  the  world  to  sweep. 
Opening  new  spheres  of  thought ! 


Wont  in  the  night  of  woods  to  dwell, 
The  holy  Druid  saw  thee  rise  ; 
And,  planting  there  the  guardian  spell. 
Sung  forth,  the  dreadful  pomp  to  swell 
Of  human  sacrifice ! 

Thy  singed  top  and  branches  bare 
Now  straggle  in  the  evening-sky  ; 
And  the  wan  moon  wheels  round  to  glare 
On  the  long  corse  that  shivers  there 
Of  him  who  came  to  die  ! 


R  O  Ci  E  R  S  '    P  O  E  Al  S.  20  1 


TO  TWO  SISTERS* 

Well  may  you  sit  within,  and,  fond  of  grief, 
Look  in  each  other's  face,  and  melt  in  tears  ; 
Well  may  you  shun  all  counsel,  all  relief — 
Oh  she  was  great  in  mind,  tho'  young  in  years 


Changed  is  that  lovely  countenance,  which  shed 
Light  when  she  spoke  ;  and  kindled  sweet  surprise, 
As  o'er  her  frame  each  warm  emotion  spread, 
Played  round  her  lips,  and  sparkled  in  her  eyes. 

Those  lips  so  pure,  that  moved  but  to  persuade. 
Still  to  the  last  enlivened  and  endeared  ; 
Those  eyes  at  once  her  secret  soul  conveyed. 
And  ever  beamed  delight  when  you  appeared. 

Yet  has  she  fled  the  life  of  bliss  below. 
That  youthful  Hope  in  bright  perspective  drew  ? 
False  were  the  tints !  false  as  the  feverish  glow 
That  o'er  her  burning  cheek  Distemper  threw  I 

*  On  the  deatii  of  a  yoangur  sister. 
20 


202  ROGERS'    POEMS. 


And  now  in  joy  she  dwells,  in  glory  moves  ! 
(Glory  and  joy  reserved  for  you  to  share  ;) 
Far,  far  more  blest  in  blessing  those  she  loves, 
Than  they,  alas  !  unconscious  of  her  care. 

ON  A  TEAR. 

Oh  !  that  the  Chemist's  magic  art 
Could  crystallize  this  sacred  treasure  ! 
Long  should  it  glitter  near  my  heart, 
A  secret  source  of  pensive  pleasure. 

The  little  brilliant,  ere  it  fell, 
Its  lustre  caught  from  Chloe's  eye  ; 
Then,  trembling,  left  its  coral  cell — 
The  spring  of  Sensibility  ! 

Sweet  drop  of  pure  and  pearly  light ! 
In  thee  the  rays  of  Virtue  shine  ; 
More  calmly  clear,  more  mildly  bright, 
Than  any  gem  that  gilds  the  mine. 

Benign  restorer  of  the  soul ! 
Who  ever  fly'st  to  bring  relief, 
When  first  we  feel  the  rude  control 
Of  Love  or  Pity,  Joy  or  Grief 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  ~  203 

The  sage's  and  the  poet's  theme,  •  ^ 

In  every  clime,  in  every  age ; 
Thou  charm'st  in  Fancy's  idle  dream, 
In  Reason's  philosophic  page. 

That  very  law*  which  moulds  a  tear, 
And  bids  it  trickle  from  its  source, 
That  law  preserves  the  earth  a  sphere, 
And  guides  the  planets  in  their  course. 


TO  A  VOICE  THAT  HAD  BEEN  LOST. 

Vane,  quid  affectas  faciem  mihi  ponere,  pictor  1 

Aeris  et  linguaB  sum  filia  ; 

Et,  si  vis  similem  pingere,  pinge  sonum. — AusoNius. 

Once  more.  Enchantress  of  the  soul, 
Once  more  we  hail  thy  soft  control. 
— Yet  whither,  whither  didst  thou  fly  ? 
To  what  bright  region  of  the  sky  ? 
Say,  in  what  distant  star  to  dwell  ? 
(Of  other  worlds  thou  seem'st  to  tell) 

*  The  law  ol"  "ravitation. 


204  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Or  trembling,  fluttering  here  below, 
Resolved  and  unresolved  to  go, 
In  secret  didst  thou  still  impart 
Thy  raptures  to  the  pure  in  heart  ? 

Perhaps  to  many  a  desert  shore, 
Thee,  in  his  rage,  the  Tempest  bore ; 
Thy  broken  murmurs  swept  along, 
Mid  Echoes  yet  untuned  by  song  ; 
Arrested  in  the  realms  of  Frost, 
Or  in  the  wilds  of  Ether  lost. 

Far  happier  thou  I  'twas  thine  to  soar, 
Careering  on  the  winged  wind. 
Thy  triumphs  who  shall  dare  explore  ? 
Suns  and  their  systems  left  behind. 
No  tract  of  space,  no  distant  star, 
No  shock  of  elements  at  war, 
Did  thee  detain.     Thy  wing  of  fire 
Bore  thee  amid  the  Cherub-choir  ; 
And  there  awhile  to  thee  'twas  given 
Once  more  that  Voice*  beloved  to  join, 
Which  taught  thee  first  a  flight  divine, 
And  nursed  thy  infant  years  with   many  a  strain 
from  Heaven ! 

*  Mrs.  Sheridan's. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  205 


THE  BOY  OF  EGREMOND. 

1812. 

"  Say  what  remains  when  Hope  is  fled  ?" 
She  answered,  "  Endless  weeping  !" 
For  in  the  herdsman's  eye  she  read 
Who  in  his  shroud  lay  sleeping. 

At  Embsay  rung  the  matin-bell, 
The  stag  was  roused  on  Barden-fell  ; 
The  mingled  sounds  were  swelling,  dying, 
And  down  the  Wharfe  a  hern  was  flying; 
When  near  the  cabin  in  the  wood. 
In  tartan  clad  and  forest-green. 
With  hound  in  leash  and  hawk  in  hood, 
The  Boy  of  Egremond  was  seen.* 

*  In  the  twelftli  century,  William  Fitz-Duncan  laid  waste  the  valleys  of 
Craven  with  fire  and  sword ;  and  was  afterwards  established  there  by  his 
uncle,  David  King-  of  Scotland. 

He  was  the  last  of  the  race  ;  his  son,  commonly  called  the  Boy  of  Egre- 
mond, dying  before  him  in  the  manner  here  related ;  when  a  Priory  was 
removed  from  Embsay  to  Bolton,  that  it  might  be  as  near  as  possible  to  the 
place  where  the  accident  happened.  That  place  is  still  known  by  the  name 
of  the  Strid  ;  and  the  mother's  answer,  as  given  in  the  first  stanza,  is  to 
this  day  often  ropmlcd  in  Wharfedale. — See  Whit.\ker's  Tlist  of  Craven. 


206  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Blithe  was  his  song,  a  song,  of  yore  ; 

But  where  the  rock  is  rent  in  two, 

And  the  river  rushes  through. 

His  voice  was  heard  no  more  ! 

Twas  but  a  step  I  the  gulf  he  passed  ; 

But  that  step — it  was  his  last ! 

As  through  the  mist  he  winged  his  way, 

(A  cloud  that  hovers  night  and  day,) 

The  hound  hung  back,  and  back  he  drew 

The  Master  and  his  merlin  too. 

That  narrow  place  of  noise  and  strife 

Received  their  little  all  of  Life ! 

There  now  the  matin-bell  is  rung  ; 
The  "  Miserere  !"  duly  sung  ; 
And  holy  men  in  cowl  and  hood 
Are  wandering  up  and  down  the  wood. 
But  what  avail  they  ?     Ruthless  Lord, 
Thou  didst  not  shudder  when  the  sword 
Here  on  the  young  its  fury  spent. 
The  helpless  and  the  innocent. 
Sit  now  and  answer,  groan  for  groan. 
The  child  before  thee  is  thy  own. 
And  she  who  wildly  wanders  there, 
The  mother  in  her  long  despair, 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  207 

Shall  oft  remind  thee,  waking,  sleeping. 
Of  those  who  by  the  Wharfe  were  weeping  ; 
Of  those  who  would  not  be  consoled 
When  red  with  blood  the  river  rolled.     • 


WRITTEN  IN  A  SICK  CHAMBER. 


1793. 


There,  in  that  bed  so  closely  curtained  round, 
Worn  to  a  shade,  and  wan  with  slow  decay, 
A  father  sleeps !     Oh  hushed  be  every  sound ! 
Soft  may  we  breathe  the  midnight  hours  away ! 

He  stirs — yet  still  he  sleeps.     May  heavenly  dreams 
Long  o'er  his  smooth  and  settled  pillow  rise  ; 
Nor  fly,  till  morning  thro'  the  shutter  streams, 
/  And  on  the  hearth  the  glimmering  rush-light  dies. 


208  ROGERS'    POEMS. 


TO * 

1805. 

Ah!  little  thought  she,  when,  with  wild  delight, 
By  many  a  torrent's  shining  track  she  flew, 
When  mountain-glens  and  caverns  full  of  night 
O'er  her  young  mind  divine  enchantment  threw, 

That  in  her  veins  a  secret  horror  slept. 
That  her  light  footsteps  should  be  heard  no  more, 
That  she  should  die — nor  watched,  alas  !  nor  wept 
By  thee,  unconscious  of  the  pangs  she  bore. 

Yet  round  her  couch  indulgent  Fancy  drew 
The  kindred  forms  her  closing  eye  required. 
There  didst  thou    stand — there,   with  the    smile  she 

knew  ; 
She  moved  her  lips  to  bless  thee,  and  expired. 

*  On  the  death  of  lier  sister. 


ROGERS'   POEMS.  209 

And  now  to  thee  she  comes  ;  still,  still  the  same 
As  in  the  hours  gone  unregarded  by  ! 
To  thee,  how  changed,  comes  as  she  ever  came  ; 
Health  on  her  cheek,  and  pleasure  in  her  eye  ! 

Nor  less,  less  oft,  as  on  that  day,  appears, 
When  lingering,  as  prophetic  of  the  truth. 
By  the  wayside  she  shed  her  parting  tears — 
For  ever  lovely  in  the  light  of  Youth  ! 


TO  A  FRIEND  ON  HIS  MARRIAGE. 


1798. 


On  thee,  blest  youth,  a  father's  hand  confers 
The  maid  thy  earliest,  fondest  wishes  knew. 
Each  soft  enchantment  of  the  soul  is  hers ; 
Thine  be  the  joys  to  firm  attachment  due. 

As  on  she  moves  with  hesitating  grace. 
She  wins  assurance  from  his  soothing  voice ; 
And,  with  a  look  the  pencil  could  not  trace. 
Smiles  thro'  her  blushes,  and  confirms  the  choice. 

27 


210  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Spare  the  fine  tremors  of  her  feeling  frame  I 
To  thee  she  turns — forgive  a  virgin's  fears  ! 
To  thee  she  turns  with  surest,  tenderest  claim ; 
Weakness  that  charms,  reluctance  that  en^Jears! 


At  each  response  the  sacred  rite  requires, 
From  her  full  bosom  bursts  the  unbidden  sigh. 
A  strange  mysterious  awe  the  scene  inspires ; 
And  on  her  lips  the  trembling  accents  die. 

O'er  her  fair  face  what  wild  emotions  play ! 
What  lights  and  shades  in  sweet  confusion  blend ! 
Soon  shall  they  fly,  glad  harbingers  of  day, 
And  settled  sunshine  on  her  soul  descend ! 

Ah  soon,  thine  own  confest,  ecstatic  thought ! 
That  hand  shall  strew  thy  summer  path  with  flowers ; 
And  those  blue  eyes,  with  mildest  lustre  fraught, 
Gild  the  calm  current  of  domestic  hours! 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  211 


TO 


THE  YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER  OF  LADY  *  *. 

Ah  !  why  with  telltale  tongue  reveal 
What  most  her  blushes  would  conceal  T* 
Why  lift  that  modest  veil  to  trace 
The  seraph-sweetness  of  her  face  ? 
Some  fairer,  better  sport  prefer ; 
And  feel  for  us,  if  not  for  her. 

For  this  presumption,  soon  or  late, 
Know  thine  shall  be  a  kindred  fate. 
Another  shall  in  vengeance  rise — 
Sing  Harriet's  cheeks,  and  Harriet's  eyes ; 
And,  echoing  back  her  wood-notes  wild, 
— Trace  all  the  mother  in  the  child ! 

*  AlludinfT  to  some  verses  which  she  had  written  on  an  elder  sister. 


212  ROGERS'    POEMS. 


THE  ALPS  AT  DAYBREAK. 

1782. 

The  sunbeams  streak  the  azure  skies, 
And  line  with  light  the  mountain's  brow ; 
With  hounds  and  horns  the  hunters  rise, 
And  chase  the  roebuck  thro'  the  snow. 

From  rock  to  rock,  with  giant-bound, 
High  on  their  iron  poles  they  pass ; 
Mute,  lest  the  air,  convulsed  by  sound. 
Rend  from  above  a  frozen  mass. 

The  goats  wind  slow  their  wonted  way, 
Up  craggy  steeps  and  ridges  rude  ; 
Marked  by  the  wild  wolf  for  his  prey, 
From  desert  cave  or  hanging  wood. 

And  while  the  torrent  thunders  loud, 
And  as  the  echoing  clilTs  reply, 
The  huts  peep  o'er  the  morning-cloud, 
Perched,  like  an  eagle's  nest,  on  high. 


Lea  He  Blanchard.  FhUadelpttia , 
1843. 


GAlPfT 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  213 


WRITTEN  AT  MIDNIGHT. 


1786. 


While  thro'  the  broken  pane  the  tempest  sighs. 
And  my  step  falters  on  the  faithless  floor, 
Shades  of  departed  joys  around  me  rise, 
With  many  a  face  that  smiles  on  me  no  more ; 
With  many  a  voice  that  thrills  of  transport  gave, 
Now  silent  as  the  grass  that  tufts  their  grave  I 


TO 


Go — you  may  call  it  madness,  folly  ; 
You  shall  not  chase  my  gloom  away ! 
There's  such  a  charm  in  melancholy, 
I  would  not,  if  I  could,  be  gay. 


Oh,  if  you  knew  the  pensive  pleasure 
That  fills  my  bosom  when  I  sigh, 
You  would  not  rob  me  of  a  treasure 
Monarchs  are  too  poor  to  buy. 


214  ROGERS'    POEMS. 


TO  THE  FRAGMENT  OF  A  STATUE  OF  HERCULES, 


COMMONLY  CALLED 


THE      TORSO. 


And  dost  thou  still,  thou  mass  of  breathing  stone, 
(Thy  giant  limbs  to  night  and  chaos  hurled) 
Still  sit  as  on  the  fragment  of  a  world ; 
Surviving  all,  majestic  and  alone  ? 
What  tho'  the  Spirits  of  the  North,  that  swept 
Rome  from  the  earth,  when  in  her  pomp  she  slept, 
Smote  thee  with  fury,  and  thy  headless  trunk 
Deep  in  the  dust  'mid  tower  and  temple  sunk ; 
Soon  to  subdue  mankind  'twas  thine  to  rise, 
Still,  still  unquelled  thy  glorious  energies ! 
Aspiring  minds,  with  thee  conversing,  caught 
Bright  revelations  of  the  Good  they  sought  ;* 
By  thee  that  long-lost  spellt  in  secret  given. 
To  draw  down  Gods,  and  lift  the  soul  to  Heaven ! 

*  In  the  gardens  of  the  Vatican,  where  it  was  placed  by  Julius  II.,  it 
was  long  the  favourite  study  of  those  great  men  to  whom  wo  owe  the 
revival  of  the  arts,  Michael  Angelo,  Raphael,  and  the  Caracci. 

f  Once  in  the  possession  of  Praxiteles,  if  we  may  believe  an  ancient 
opiirram  on  llic  Onidian  Venus. — Analccta  Vet.  Poetaruni,  III.  200. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  215 


A    WISH. 


178.2. 


Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill ; 
A  bee-hive's  hum  shall  soothe  my  ear; 
A  willowy  brook,  that  turns  a  mill, 
With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow,  oft,  beneath  my  thatch. 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest ; 
Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 
And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 

Around  my  ivy'd  porch  shall  spring 
Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew ; 
And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village-church,  among  the  trees. 
Where  first  our  marriage-vows  were  given. 
With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze, 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  heaven. 


216  ROGERS'    POEMS. 


TO  THE  GNAT. 

When  by  the  green-wood  side,  at  summer  eve, 

Poetic  visions  charm  my  closing  eye  ; 

And  fairy-scenes,  that  fancy  loves  to  vv^eave, 

Shift  to  wild  notes  of  sweetest  minstrelsy  ; 

'Tis  thine  to  range  in  busy  quest  of  prey, 

Thy  feathery  antlers  quivering  with  delight, 

Brush  from  my  lids  the  hues  of  heaven  away. 

And  all  is  Solitude,  and  all  is  Night ! 

— Ah  now  thy  barbed  shaft,  relentless  fly, 

Unsheaths  its  terrors  in  the  sultry  air! 

No  guardian  sylph,  in  golden  panoply. 

Lifts  the  broad  shield,  and  points  the  glittering  spear. 

Now  near  and  nearer  rush  thy  whirring  wings, 

Thy  dragon-scales  still  wet  with  human  gore. 

Hark,  thy  shrill  horn  its  fearful  larum  flings ! 

— I  wake  in  horror,  and  dare  sleep  no  more  ! 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  217 


AN   EPITAPH- 

ON  A  ROBIN-REDBREAST* 

Tread  lightly  here,  for  here,  'tis  said, 
When  piping  winds  are  hushed  around, 
A  small  note  wakes  from  underground. 
Where  now  his  tiny  bones  are  laid. 
No  more  in  lone  and  leafless  groves, 
With  ruffled  wing  and  faded  breast. 
His  friendless,  homeless  spirit  roves  ; 
— Gone  to  the  world  where  birds  are  blest ! 
Where  never  cat  glides  o'er  the  green, 
Or  school-boy's  giant  form  is  seen  ; 
But  Love,  and  Joy,  and  smiling  Spring 
Inspire  their  little  souls  to  sing ! 

*  Inscribed  on  an  nrn  in  the  flower-iranlen  at  Ilafucl. 


2^ 


218  ROGERS'    POEMS, 


AN  ITALIAN  SONG. 

1782. 

Dear  is  my  little  native  vale, 

The  ring-dove  builds  and  murmurs  there  ; 

Close  by  my  cot  she  tells  her  tale 

To  every  passing  villager. 

The  squirrel  leaps  from  tree  to  tree, 

And  shells  his  nuts  at  liberty. 

In  orange-groves  and  myrtle-bowers, 
That  breathe  a  gale  of  fragrance  round, 
I  charm  the  fairy-footed  hours 
With  my  loved  lute's  romantic  sound  ; 
Or  crowns  of  living  laurel  weave, 
For  those  that  win  the  race  at  eve. 

The  shepherd's  horn  at  break  of  day, 
The  ballet  danced  in  twilight  glade. 
The  canzonet  and  roundelay 
Sung  in  the  silent  green-wood  shade  ; 
These  simple  joys,  that  never  fail. 
Shall  bind  me  to  mv  native  vale. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  219 


TO    THE    BUTTERFLY. 

Child  of  the  sun  !  pursue  thy  rapturous  flight, 
Mingling  with  her  thou  lov'st  in  fields  of  light ; 
And,  where  the  flowers  of  Paradise  unfold, 
Quafl*  fragrant  nectar  from  their  cups  of  gold. 
There  shall  thy  wings,  rich  as  an  evening-sky, 
Expand  and  shut  with  silent  ecstasy ! 
— Yet  wert  thou  once  a  worm,  a  thing  that  crept 
On  the  bare  earth,  then  wrought  a  tomb  and  slept. 
And  such  is  man  ;  soon  from  his  cell  of  clay 
To  burst  a  seraph  in  the  blaze  of  day ! 

WRITTEN   IN 

THE  HIGHLANDS  OF  SCOTLAND, 

September  2,  1812. 

Blue  was  the  loch,  the  clouds  were  gone, 
Ben-Lomond  in  his  glory  shone. 
When,  Luss,  I  left  thee ;  when  the  breeze 
Bore  me  from  thy  silver  sands, 


220  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Thy  kirk-yard  wall  among  the  trees, 
Where,  gray  with  age,  the  dial  stands  ; 
That  dial  so  well  known  to  me ! 
— Tho'  many  a  shadow  it  had  shed. 
Beloved  Sister,  since  with  thee 
The  legend  on  the  stone  was  read. 

The  fairy  isles  fled  far  away  ; 
That  with  its  woods  and  uplands  green, 
Where  shepherd-huts  are  dimly  seen, 
And  songs  are  heard  at  close  of  day  ; 
That  too,  the  deer's  wild  covert,  fled, 
And  that,  the  asylum  of  the  dead  : 
While,  as  the  boat  went  merrily, 
Much  of  Rob  Roy  the  boatman  told  ; 
His  arm  that  fell  below  his  knee. 
His  cattle-ford  and  mountain-hold. 

Tarbat,*  thy  shore  I  climbed  at  last ; 
And,  thy  shady  region  passed. 
Upon  another  shore  I  stood. 
And  looked  upon  another  flood  ;t 
Great  Ocean's  self!     ('Tis  He  who  fills 
That  vast  and  awful  depth  of  hills  ;) 

*  Signifying  in  tho  Gaelic  language  an  Isthmus. 
\  Loch-long. 


ROGERS'   POEMS.  221 

Where  many  an  elf  was  playing  round,    . 
Who  treads  unshod  his  classic  ground  ; 
And  speaks,  his  native  rocks  among, 
As  FiNGAL  spoke,  and  Ossian  sung. 

Night  fell ;  and  dark  and  darker  grew 
That  narrow  sea,  that  narrow  sky, 
As  o'er  the  glimmering  waves  we  flew  ; 
The  sea-bird  rustling,  wailing  by. 
And  now  the  grampus,  half-descried, 
Black  and  huge  above  the  tide  ; 
The  cliffs  and  promontories  there. 
Front  to  front,  and  broad  and  bare ; 
Each  beyond  each,  with  giant-feet 
Advancing  as  in  haste  to  meet ; 
The  shattered  fortress,  whence  the  Dane 
Blew  his  shrill  blast,  nor  rushed  in  vain, 
Tyrant  of  the  drear  domain  ; 
All  into  midnight-shadow  sweep — 
When  day  springs  upward  from  the  deep  !* 
Kindling  the  waters  in  its  flight, 
The  prow  wakes  splendour  ;  and  the  oar, 
That  rose  and  fell  unseen  before. 
Flashes  in  a  sea  of  light ! 

*  A  phenomenon  described  by  many  navigators. 


222  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Glad  sign  and  sure  !  for  now  we  hail 
Thy  flowers,  Glenfinnart,  in  the  gale ; 
And  bright  indeed  the  path  should  be, 
That  leads  to  Friendship  and  to  Thee ! 

Oh  blest  retreat  and  sacred  too ! 
Sacred  as  when  the  bell  of  prayer 
Tolled  duly  on  the  desert  air. 
And  crosses  decked  thy  summits  blue. 
Oft,  like  some  loved  romantic  tale. 
Oft  shall  my  weary  mind  recall, 
Amid  the  hum  and  stir  of  men, 
Thy  beechen  grove  and  waterfall, 
Thy  ferry  with  its  gliding  sail. 
And  Her — the  Lady  of  the  Glen ! 


AN  INSCRIPTION  IN  THE  CRIMEA. 

Shepherd,  or  Huntsman,  or  worn  Mariner, 
Whate'er  thou  art,  who  wouldst  allay  thy  thirst, 
Drink  and  be  glad.     This  cistern  of  white  stone, 
Arched,  and  o'erwrought  with  many  a  sacred  verse, 
This  iron  cup  chained  for  the  general  use. 
And  these  rude  seats  of  Earth  within  the  grove. 


ROGERS'   POEMS.  223 

Were  given  by  Fatima.     Borne  hence  a  bride, 
'Twas  here  she  turned  from  her  beloved  sire, 
To  see  his  face  no  more*     Oh,  if  thou  canst, 
(Tis  not  far  off)  visit  his  tomb  with  flowers  ; 
And  with  a  drop  of  this  sweet  water  fill 
The  two  small  cells  scooped  in  the  marble  there, 
That  birds  may  come  and  drink  upon  his  grave, 
Making  it  holyt , 

*  There  is  a  beautiful  story,  delivered  down  to  us  from  antiquity,  which 
will  here  perhaps  occur  to  the  reader. 

Icarius,  when  he  gave  Penelope  in  marriage  to  Ulysses,  endeavoured  to 
persuade  him  to  dwell  in  LacedBsmon ;  and,  when  all  he  urged  was  to  no 
purpose,  he  entreated  his  daughter  to  remain  with  him.  When  Ulysses 
set  out  with  his  bride  for  Ithaca,  the  old  man  followed  the  chariot,  till, 
overcome  by  his  importunity,  Ulysses  consented  that  it  should  be  left  with 
Penelope  to  decide  whether  she  would  proceed  with  him  or  return  with 
her  father.  It  is  related,  says  Pausanias,  that  she  made  no  reply,  but  that 
she  covered  herself  with  her  veil ;  and  that  Icarius,  perceiving  at  once 
by  it  that  she  inclined  to  Ulysses,  suffered  her  to  depart  with  him. 

A  statue  was  afterwards  placed  by  her  father  as  a  memorial  in  that  part 
of  the  road  where  she  had  covered  herself  with  her  veil.  It  was  still 
standing  there  in  the  days  of  Pausanias,  and  was  called  the  statue  of 
Modesty. 

t  A  Turkish  superstition. 


224  ROC  KllS'    I'OE  .M  s. 


AN  INoCRIPTION  FOF.  A  TEMFLE 

DEDICATED  TO  THE  GRACES  * 

Approach  with  reverence.     There  are  those  within, 
Whose  dwelling-place  is  Heaven.     Daughters  of  Jove, 
From  them  flow  all  the  decencies  of  Life  ; 
Without  them  nothing  pleases,  Virtue's  self 
Admired  not  loved  :  and  those  on  whom  They  smile. 
Great  though  they  be,  and  wise,  and  beautiful. 
Shine  forth  with  double  lustre. 


WRITTEN  IN  1834. 

Well,  when  her  day  is  over,  be  it  said 
That,  though  a  speck  on  the  terrestrial  globe. 
Found  with  long  search  and  in  a  moment  lost, 
She  made  herself  a  name — a  name  to  live 
While  science,  eloquence,  and  song  divine. 

■  At,  Wol)nrn  Alihcv. 


ROGERS'   POEMS.  223 

And  wisdom,  in  self-government  displayed, 
And  valour,  such  as  only  in  the  Free, 
Shall  among  men  be  honoured. 

Every  sea 
Was  covered  with  her  sails,  in  every  port 
Her  language  spoken  ;  and,  where'er  you  went. 
Exploring,  to  the  east  or  to  the  west, 
Even  to  the  rising  or  the  setting  day. 
Her  arts  and  laws  and  institutes  were  there, 
Moving  with  silent  and  majestic  march. 
Onward  and  onward,  where  no  pathway  was  ; 
There  her  adventurous  sons,  like  those  of  old, 
Founding  vast  empires* — empires  in  their  turn 
Destined  to  shine  thro'  many  a  distant  age 
With  sunlike  splendour. 

Wondrous  was  her  wealth, 
The  world  itself  her  willing  tributary  ; 

*  North  America  speaks  for  itself;  and  so  indeed  may  we  say  of  India, 
when  such  a  territory  is  ours  in  a  region  so  remote — "  a  territory  larger 
and  more  populous  than  Great  Britain  and  France  and  Spain,  and  Germany 
and  Italy  together ;"  when  a  company  of  merchants,  from  such  small 
beginnings,  have  established  a  dominion  so  absolute,  "  where  Trajan  never 
penetrated  and  where  the  phalanx  of  Alexander  refused  to  proceed" — a 
dominion  over  a  people  for  ages  civilized  and  cultivated,  while  wc  were 
yet  in  the  woods. 

20 


226  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Yet,  to  accomplish  what  her  soul  desired, 
All  was  as  nothing  ;  and  the  mightiest  kings, 
Each  in  his  hour  of  strife  exhausted,  fallen, 
Drew  strength  from  Her,  their  coffers  from  her  own 
Filled  to  o'erflowing.     When  her  fleets  of  war 
Had  swept  the  main  ;  when  not  an  adverse  prow. 
From  pole  to  pole,  far  as  the  sea-bird  flics, 
Ruffled  the  tide  ;  and  they  themselves  were  gone. 
Gone  from  the  eyes  and  from  the  minds  of  men, 
Their  dreadful  errands  so  entirely  done — 
Up  rose  her  armies  ;  on  the  land  they  stood, 
Fearless,  erect ;  and  in  an  instant  smote 
Him  with  his  legions.* 

Yet  ere  long  'twas  hers. 
Great  as  her  triumphs,  to  eclipse  them  all. 
To  do  what  none  had  done,  none  had  conceived, 
An  act  how  glorious,  making  joy  in  Heaven  ! 
When,  such  her  prodigality,  condemned 
To  toil  and  toil,  alas,  how  hopelessly, 

*  Alluding  to  the  battle  of  Waterloo.  The  illustrious  Man  who  com- 
manded there  on  our  side,  and  who,  in  his  anxiety  to  do  justice  to  others, 
never  fails  to  forget  himself,  said  many  years  afterwards  to  the  Author 
with  some  agitation,  when  relating  an  occurrence  of  that  day,  "  It  was  a 
battle  of  giants !" 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  227 

Herself  in  bonds,  for  ages  unredeemed — 
As  with  a  godlike  energy  she  sprung, 
All  else  forgot,  and,  burdened  as  she  was, 
Ransomed  the  African. 


AN  INSCRIPTION  FOR  STRATFIELD  SAYE. 

These  are  the  groves  a  grateful  people  gave 
For  noblest  service  ;  and  from  age  to  age, 
May  they,  to  such  as  come  with  listening  ear. 
Relate  the  story  !     Sacred  is  their  shade  ; 
Sacred  the  calm  they  breathe — oh,  how  unlike 
What  in  the  field  'twas  his  so  long  to  know ; 
Where  many  a  mournful,  many  an  anxious  thought, 
Troubling,  perplexing,  on  his  weary  mind 
Preyed,  ere  to  arms  the  morning-trumpet  called  ; 
Where,  till  the  work  was  done  and  darkness  fell. 
Blood  ran  like  water,  and,  go  where  thou  wouldst. 
Death  in  thy  pathway  met  thee,  face  to  face. 

For  on,  regardless  of  himself,  He  went ; 
And,  by  no  change  elated  or  depressed, 
Fought,  till  he  won  the'  imperishable  wreath, 


228  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Leading  the  conquerors  captive  ;  on  he  went, 
Bating  nor  heart  nor  hope,  whoe'er  opposed  ; 
The  greatest  warriors,  in  their  turn,  appearing  ; 
The  last  that  came,  the  greatest  of  them  all — 
One  scattering  fear,  as  born  but  to  subdue, 
And,  even  in  rout,  in  ruin,  scattering  fear  ; 
So  long,  till  warred  on  by  the  elements, 
Invincible  ;  the  mightiest  of  the  earth ! 

When  such  the  service,  what  the  recompense  ? 
What  was  not  due  to  him  if  he  survived  ? 
Yet,  if  I  err  not,  a  renown  as  fair, 
And  fairer  still,  awaited  him  at  home  ; 
When  in  his  place,  day  after  day,  he  stood, 
The  party-zeal,  that  round  him  raged,  restraining ; 
— His  not  to  rest,  while  his  the  strength  to  serve. 


REFLECTIONS. 

Man  to  the  last  is  but  a  froward  child  ; 

So  eager  for  the  future,  come  what  may, 

And  to  the  present  so  insensible  ! 

Oh,  if  he  could  in  all  things  as  he  would, 

Years  would  as  days  and  hours  as  moments  be  ; 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  229 

He  would,  so  restless  is  his  spirit  here, 
Give  wings  to  Time,  and  wish  his  life  away ! 


Alas,  to  our  discomfort  and  his  own. 

Oft  are  the  greatest  talents  to  be  found 

In  a  fool's  keeping.     For  what  else  is  he, 

What  else  is  he,  however  worldly  wise, 

Who  can  pervert  and  to  the  worst  abuse 

The  noblest  means  to  serve  the  noblest  ends ;  ' 

Who  can  employ  the  gift  of  eloquence, 

That  sacred  gift,  to  dazzle  and  delude  ; 

Or,  if  achievement  in  the  field  be  his, 

Climb  but  to  gain  a  loss,  suffering  how  much, 

And  how  much  more  inflicting !     Every  where, 

Cost  what  they  will,  such  cruel  freaks  are  played ; 

And  hence  the  turmoil  in  this  world  of  ours. 

The  turmoil  never  ending,  still  beginning, 

The  wailing  and  the  tears. — When  C^sar  came. 

He  who  could  master  all  men  but  himself, 

Who  did  so  much  and  could  so  well  record  it ; 

Even  he,  the  most  applauded  in  his  part, 

Who,  when  he  spoke,  all  things  summed  up  in  him, 

Spoke  to  convince,  nor  ever,  when  he  fought. 


230  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Fought  but  to  conquer — what  a  life  was  his, 

Slaying  so  many,  to  be  slain  at  last,* 

A  life  of  trouble  and  incessant  toil, 

And  all  to  gain  what  is  far  better  missed  ! 


The  heart,  they  say,  is  wiser  than  the  schools ; 
And  well  they  may.     All  that  is  great  in  thought. 
That  strikes  at  once  as  with  electric  fire. 
And  lifts  us,  as  it  were,  from  earth  to  heaven, 
Comes  from  the  heart ;  and  who  confesses  not 
Its  voice  as  sacred,  nay  almost  divine, 
When  inly  it  declares  on  what  we  do. 
Blaming,  approving  ?     Let  an  erring  world 
Judge  as  it  will,  we  care  not  while  we  stand 
Acquitted  there  ;  and  oft,  when  clouds  on  clouds 
Compass  us  round  and  not  a  track  appears, 
Oft  is  an  upright  heart  the  surest  guide, 
Surer  and  better  than  the  subtlest  head ; 
Still  with  its  silent  counsels  thro'  the  dark 
Onward  and  onward  leading. 

*  He  is  said  to  have  slain  a  million  of  men  in  Gaul  alone. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.         ^  231 

This  Child,  so  lovely  and  so  cherub-like, 

(No  fairer  spirit  in  the  heaven  of  heavens) 

Say,  must  he  know  remorse  ?  must  Passion  come,    - 

Passion  in  all  or  any  of  its  shapes. 

To  cloud  and  sully  what  is  now  so  pure  ? 

Yes,  come  it  must.     For  who,  alas  !  has  lived. 

Nor  in  the  watches  of  the  night  recalled 

Words  he  has  wished  unsaid  and  deeds  undone  ? 

Yes,  come  it  must.     But  if,  as  we  may  hope. 

He  learns  ere  long  to  discipline  his  mind. 

And  onward  goes,  humbly  and  cheerfully. 

Assisting  them  that  faint,  weak  though  he  be, 

And  in  his  trying  hours  trusting  in  God — 

Fair  as  he  is,  he  shall  be  fairer  still  ; 

For  what  was  Innocence  will  then  be  Virtue. 


Oh,  if  the  selfish  knew  how  much  they  lost. 
What  would  they  not  endeavour,  not  endure, 
To  imitate,  as  far  as  in  them  lay, 
Him  who  his  wisdom  and  his  power  employs 
In  making  others  happy  ! 


232  ROGERS'    POEMS. 


WRITTEN  AT  DROPMORE. 

July,  1831. 

Grenville,  to  thee  my  gratitude  is  due 

For  many  an  hour  of  studious  musing  here, 

For  many  a  day-dream,  such  as  hovered  round 

Hafiz,  or  Sadi ;  thro'  the  golden  East, 

Search  where  we  would,  no  fairer  bowers  than  these, 

Thine  own  creation  ;  where,  called  forth  by  thee, 

"  Flowers  worthy  of  Paradise,  with  rich  inlay, 

Broider  the  ground,"  and  every  mountain-pine 

Elsewhere  unseen  (his  birth-place  in  the  clouds, 

His  kindred  sweeping  with  majestic  march 

From  clilT  to  cliff  along  the  snowy  ridge 

Of  Caucasus,  or  nearer  yet  the  Moon) 

Breathes  heavenly  music. — Yet  much  more  I  owe 

For  what  so  few,  alas !  can  hope  to  share, 

Thy  converse;  when,  among  thy  books  reclined, 

Or  in  thy  garden-chair,  that  wheels  its  course 

Slowly  and  silently  thro'  sun  and  shade, 

Thou  speak'st,  as  ever  thou  art  wont  to  do, 

In  the  calm  temper  of  philosophy  ; 

— Still  to  delight,  instruct,  whate'er  the  theme. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  g^  '  233 


WRITTEN  IN  JULY, 


1834. 


Grey,  thou  hast  served,  and  well,  the  sacred  Cause, 

That  Hampden,  Sydney  died  for.     Thou  hast  stood, 

Scorning  all  thought  of  Self,  from  first  to  last, 

Among  the  foremost  in  that  glorious  field ; 

From  first  to  last ;  and,  ardent  as  thou  art, 

Held  on  with  equal  step  as  best  became 

A  lofty  mind,  loftiest  when  most  assailed ; 

Never,  though  galled  by  many  a  barbed  shaft, 

By  many  a  bitter  taunt  from  friend  and  foe. 

Swerving,  or  shrinking.     Happy  in  thy  Youth, 

Thy  Youth  the  dawn  of  a  long  summer-day ; 

But  in  thy  Age  still  happier;  thine  to  earn 

The  gratitude  of  millions  yet  to  be ; 

Thine  to  conduct,  through  ways  how  difficult, 

A  mighty  people  in  their  march  sublime 

From  Good  to  Better.     Great  thy  recompense, 

When  in  their  eyes  thou  read'st  what  thou  hast  done ; 

And  may'st  thou  long  enjoy  it ;  may'st  thou  long 

30 


234  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Preserve  for  them  what  still  they  claim  as  theirs, 
That  generous  fervour  and  pure  eloquence, 
Thine  from  thy  birth  and  Nature's  noblest  gifts, 
To  guard  what  They  have  gained ! 


WRITTEN  IN 

WESTMINSTER    ABBEY,* 

October  10,  180G. 

Whoe'er  thou  art,  approach,  and,  with  a  sigh, 
Mark  where  the  small  remains  of  Greatness  lie.t 
There  sleeps  the  dust  of  FOX  for  ever  gone ; 
How  near  the  Place  where  late  his  glory  shone ! 
And,  tho'  no  more  ascends  the  voice  of  Prayer, 
Tho'  the  last  footsteps  cease  to  linger  there, 
Still,  like  an  awful  Dream  that  comes  again, 
Alas,  at  best,  as  transient  and  as  vain. 
Still  do  I  see  (while  thro'  the  vaults  of  night 
The  funeral-song  once  more  proclaims  the  rite) 

*  After  the  funeral  of  the  Right  Hon.  Charles  James  Fox. 
f  Venez  voir  le  pen  (nii  nous  rcste  de  tant  de  grandeur,  &c. — Bossuet. 
Oraison  funobre  de  Louis  do  Bourbon. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  235 

The  moving  Pomp  along  the  shadowy  aisle, 

That,  like  a  Darkness,  filled  the  solemn  Pile ; 

The  illustrious  line,  that  in  long  order  led, 

Of  those,  that  loved  Him  living,  mourned  Him  dead ; 

Of  those  the  Few,  that  for  their  Country  stood 

Round  Him  who  dared  be  singularly  good ; 

All,  of  all  ranks,  that  claimed  him  for  their  own  ; 

And  nothing  wanting — but  Himself  alone  I* 

Oh  say,  of  Him  now  rests  there  but  a  name ; 
Wont,  as  he  was,  to  breathe  ethereal  flame  ? 
Friend  of  the  Absent,  Guardian  of  the  Dead ! 
Who  but  would  here  their  sacred  sorrows  shed  ? 
(Such  as  He  shed  on  Nelson's  closing  grave  ; 
How  soon  to  claim  the  sympathy  He  gave !) 
In  Him,  resentful  of  another's  wrong. 
The  dumb  were  eloquent,  the  feeble  strong. 
Truth  from  his  lips  a  charm  celestial  drcAv — 
Ah,  who  so  mighty  and  so  gentle  too? 

What  tho'  w^ith  War  the  madding  Nations  rung, 
'  Peace,'  when  He  spoke,  was  ever  on  his  tongue ! 
Amid  the  frowns  of  Power,  the  tricks  of  State, 
Fearless,  resolved,  and  negligently  great! 

*  Et  ri(Mi  (Mitin  ne  niaiu[ae  tlans  toud  ces  iioiineurs,  ([vw  ccliii  h  (lui  on 
Ics  rend. — Ibul. 


236  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

In  vain  malignant  vapours  gathered  round  ; 
He  walked,  erect,  on  consecrated  ground. 
The  clouds,  that  rise  to  quench  the  Orb  of  day, 
Reflect  its  splendour,  and  dissolve  away ! 

When  in  retreat  He  laid  his  thunder  bv, 
For  lettered  ease  and  calm  Philosophy, 
Blest  were  his  hours  within  the  silent  grove, 
Where  still  his  godlike  Spirit  deigns  to  rove ; 
Blest  by  the  orphan's  smile,  the  widow's  prayer. 
For  many  a  deed  long  done  in  secret  there. 
There  shone  his  lamp  on  Homer's  hallowed  page, 
There,  listening,  sate  the  hero  and  the  sage ; 
And  they,  by  virtue  and  by  blood  allied, 
Whom  most  He  loved,  and  in  whose  arms  He  died. 

Friend  of  all  Human-kind  !  not  here  alone 
(The  voice,  that  speaks,  was  not  to  thee  unknown) 
Wilt  Thou  be  missed. — O'er  every  land  and  sea 
Long,  long  shall  England  be  revered  in  Thee ! 
And,  when  the  Storm  is  hushed — in  distant  years — 
Foes  on  thy  grave  shall  meet,  and  mingle  tears  I 


THE 


VOYAGE   or   COLUMBUS, 


1812. 


CHI   SE'   TV,   CHE   VIENI — ? 
DA   ME  STESSO   NON   VEGNO. 

DANTE. 


I  UNiA  i;ks  n  V  OF 


PREFACE. 

The  following  Poem  (or,  to  speak  more  properly, 
what  remains  of  it*)  has  here  and  there  a  lyrical  turn 
of  thought  and  expression.  It  is  sudden  in  its  transi- 
tions, and  full  of  historical  allusions  ;  leaving  much  to 
be  imagined  by  the  reader. 

The  subject  is  a  voyage  the  most  memorable  in  the 
annals  of  mankind.  Columbus  was  a  person  of  ex- 
traordinary virtue  and  piety,  acting  under  the  sense  of 
a  Divine  impulse ;  and  his  achievement  the  discovery  of 
a  New  World,  the  inhabitants  of  which  w^ere  shut  out 
from  the  light  of  Revelation,  and  given  up,  as  they 
believed,  to  the  dominion  of  malignant  spirits. 

Many  of  the  incidents  will  now  be  thought  extrava- 

*  Tlie  Original  in  the  Castilian  language,  according  to  the  Inscription 
that  follows,  was  found  among  other  MSS.  in  an  old  religious  house  near 
Palos,  situated  on  an  island  formed  by  the  river  Tinto,  and  dedicated  to  our 
Lady  of  La  Rfibida.  The  Writer  describes  himself  as  having  sailed  with 
Columbus;  but  his  style  and  manner  are  evidently  of  an  atYor-time. 


240  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

gant  ;  yet  they  were  once  perhaps  received  with 
something  more  than  indulgence.  It  was  an  age  of 
miracles  ;  and  who  can  say  that  among  the  venerable 
legends  in  the  library  of  the  Escurial,  or  the  more 
authentic  records  which  fill  the  great  chamber  in  the 
Archivo  of  Simancas,  and  which  relate  entirely  to  the 
deep  tragedy  of  America,  there  are  no  volumes  that 
mention  the  marvellous  things  here  described  ?  Indeed 
the  story,  as  already  told  throughout  Europe,  admits 
of  no  heightening.  Such  was  the  religious  enthusiasm 
of  the  early  writers,  that  the  Author  had  only  to  trans- 
fuse it  into  his  verse ;  and  he  appears  to  have  done 
little  more ;  though  some  of  the  circumstances,  which 
he  alludes  to  as  well-known,  have  long  ceased  to  be 
so.  By  using  the  language  of  that  day,  he  has  called 
up  Columbus  "  in  his  habit  as  he  lived  ;"  and  the 
authorities,  such  as  exist,  are  carefully  given  by  the 
Translator. 


INSCRIBED  ON  THE  OKIGINAL  MANUSCRIPT. 

Unclasp  me,  Stranger ;  and  unfold, 
With  trembling  care,  my  leaves  of  gold, 
Rich  in  gothic  portraiture — 
If  yet,  alas,  a  leaf  endure. 

In  Rabida's  monastic  fane 
I  cannot  ask,  and  ask  in  vain. 
The  language  of  Castile  I  speak  ; 
Mid  many  an  Arab,  many  a  Greek, 
Old  in  the  days  of  Charlemain  ; 
When  minstrel-music  wandered  round. 
And  Science,  waking,  blessed  the  sound. 

No  earthly  thought  has  here  a  place, 
The  cowl  let  down  on  every  face  ; 

31 


242  ROGERS'     POEMS. 

Yet  here,  in  consecrated  dust, 
Here  would  I  sleep,  if  sleep  I  must. 
From  Genoa  when  Columbus  came, 
(At  once  her  glory  and  her  shame) 
'Twas  here  he  caught  the  holy  flame. 
'Twas  here  the  generous  vow  he  made  ; 
His  banners  on  the  altar  laid. 

Here  tempest-worn  and  desolate* 
A  Pilot,  journeying  thro'  the  wild, 
Stopt  to  solicit  at  the  gate 
A  pittance  for  his  child. 

*  We  have  an  interesting  account  of  his  first  appearance  in  Spain,  that 
country  which  was  so  soon  to  be  the  theatre  of  his  glory.  According  to 
the  testimony  of  Garcia  Fernandez,  the  physician  of  Palos^a  sea-faring 
man,  accompanied  by  a  very  young  boy,  stopped  one  day  at  the  gate  of 
the  convent  of  La  R;ibida  and  asked  of  the  porter  a  little  bread  and  water 
for  his  child.  While  they  were  receiving  this  humble  refreshment,  the 
Prior,  Juan  Perez,  happening  to  pass  by,  was  struck  with  the  look  and 
manner  of  the  stranger,  and,  entering  into  conversation  with  him,  soon 
learnt  the  particulars  of  his  story.  The  stranger  was  Columbus ;  the  boy 
was  his  son  Diego ;  and,  but  for  this  accidental  interview,  America  might 
have  remained  long  undiscovered :  for  it  was  to  the  zeal  of  Juan  Perez 
that  he  was  finally  indebted  for  the  accomplishment  of  his  great  purpose. 
See  Irving's  History  of  Columbus. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  243 

'Twas  here,  unknowing  and  unknown, 
He  stood  upon  the  threshold-stone. 
But  hope  was  his — a  faith  sublime, 
That  triumphs  over  place  and  time  ; 
And  here,  his  mighty  labour  done, 
And  his  course  of  glory  run, 
Awhile  as  more  than  man  he  stood, 
So  large  the  debt  of  gratitude  ! 

One  hallowed  morn,  methought,  I  felt 
As  if  a  soul  within  me  dwelt ! 
But  who  arose  and  gave  to  me 
The  sacred  trust  I  keep  for  thee. 
And  in  his  cell  at  even-tide 
Knelt  before  the  cross  and  died — 
Inquire  not  now.     His  name  no  more 
Glimmers  on  the  chancel-floor, 
Near  the  lights  that  ever  shine 
Before  St.  Mary's  blessed  shrine. 

To  me  one  little  hour  devote. 
And  lay  thy  staff  and  scrip  beside  thee  ; 
Read  in  the  temper  that  he  wrote. 
And  may  his  gentle  spirit  guide  thee! 


244  ROGERS'   POEMS. 

My  leaves  forsake  me,  one  by  one  ; 
The  book-worm  thro'  and  thro'  has  gone. 
Oh  haste — unclasp  me,  and  unfold  ; 
The  tale  within  was  never  told ! 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 

There  is  a  spirit  in  the  old  Spanish  Chroniclers 
of  the  sixteenth  century  that  may  be  compared  to 
the  freshness  of  water  at  the  fountain-head.  Their 
simplicity,  their  sensibility  to  the  strange  and  the 
wonderful,  their  very  weaknesses  give  an  infinite 
value,  by  giving  a  life  and  a  character  to  every 
thing  they  touch ;  and  their  religion,  which  bursts 
out  every  where,  addresses  itself  to  the  imagination 
in  the  highest  degree.  If  they  err,  their  errors  are 
not  their  own.  They  think  and  feel  after  the  fashion 
of  the  time  ;  and  their  narratives  are  so  many  moving 
pictures  of  the  actions,  manners,  and  thoughts  of 
their  contemporaries. 

•  What  they  had  to  communicate,  might  well  make 
them  eloquent ;  but,  inasmuch  as  relates  to  Columbus, 
the  Inspiration  went  no  farther.  No  National  Poem 
appeared  on  the  subject ;  no  Camocns  did  honour  to 
his  Genius  and  his  Virtues.  Yet  the  materials,  that 
have  descended  to  us,  are  surely  not  unpoetical ;  and 


246  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

a  desire  to  avail  myself  of  them,  to  convey  in  some 
instances  as  far  as  I  could,  in  others  as  far  as  I 
dared,  their  warmth  of  colouring  and  wildness  of 
imagery,  led  me  to  conceive  the  idea  of  a  Poem 
written  not  long  after  his  death,  when  the  great 
consequences  of  the  Discovery  were  beginning  to 
unfold  themselves,  but  while  the  minds  of  men  were 
still  clinging  to  the  superstitions  of  their  fathers. 

The  Event  here  described  may  be  thought  too  re- 
cent for  the  Machinery  ;  but  I  found  them  together.* 
A  belief  in  the  agency  of  Evil  Spirits  prevailed  over 
both  hemispheres  ;  and  even  yet  seems  almost  neces- 
sary to  enable  us  to  clear  up  the  Darkness, 

And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  Men. 

*  Perhaps  even  a  contemporary  subject  should  not  be  rejected  as  such, 
however  wild  and  extravagant  it  may  be,  if  the  manners  be  foreign  and 
the  place  distant — major  e  longinquo  reverentia.  L'eloignement  des  pays, 
says  Racine,  repare  en  quelque  sorte  la  trop  grande  proximite  des  temps ; 
car  le  peuple  ne  met  guere  de  difference  entre  ce  qui  est,  si  j'ose  ainsi 
parler,  a  mille  ans  de  lui,  et  ce  qui  en  est  a  mille  lieues. 


THE    ARGUMENT. 

Columbus,  having  wandered  from  kingdom  to  kingdom,  at 
length  obtains  three  ships  and  sets  sail  on  the  Atlantic.  The 
compass  alters  from  its  ancient  direction;  the  wind  becomes 
constant  and  unremitting ;  night  and  day  he  advances,  till  he 
is  suddenly  stopped  in  his  course  by  a  mass  of  vegetation, 
extending  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  and  assuming  the 
appearance  of  a  country  overwhelmed  by  the  sea.  Alarm 
and  despondence  on  board.  He  resigns  himself  to  the  care  of 
Heaven,  and  proceeds  on  his  voyage. 

Meanwhile  the  deities  of  America  assemble  in  council ; 
and  one  of  the  Zemi,  the  gods  of  the  islanders,  announces 
his  approach.  "  In  vain,"  says  he,  "  have  we  guarded  tiie 
Atlantic  for  ages.  A  mortal  has  baffled  our  power ;  nor  will 
our  votaries  arm  against  him.  Yours  are  a  sterner  race. 
Hence !  and,  while  we  have  recourse  to  stratagem,  do  you 
array  the  nations  round  your  altars,  and  prepare  for  an  exter- 
minating war."  They  disperse  while  he  is  yet  speaking ;  and, 
in  the  shape  of  a  condor,  he  directs  his  flight  to  the  fleet.  His 
journey  described.  He  arrives  there.  A  panic.  A  mutiny. 
Columbus  restores  order ;  continues  on  his  voyage ;  and  lands 


248  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

in  a  New  World.     Ceremonies  of  the  first  interview.     Rites 
of  hospitality.     The  ghost  of  Cazziva. 

Two  n:ionths  pass  away,  and  an  Angel,  appearing  in  a 
dream  to  Columbus,  thus  addresses  him :  "  Return  to  Europe ; 
though  your  Adversaries,  such  is  the  will  of  Heaven,  shall 
let  loose  the  hurricane  against  you.  A  little  while  shall  they 
triumph;  insinuating  themselves  into  the  hearts  of  your  fol- 
lowers, and  making  the  World,  which  you  came  to  bless,  a 
scene  of  blood  and  slaughter.  Yet  is  there  cause  for  rejoicing. 
Your  work  is  done.  The  cross  of  Christ  is  planted  here;  and, 
in  due  time,  all  things  shall  be  made  perfect." 


THE  VOYAGE  OP   COLUMBUS. 


CANTO  I. 

Night — Columbus  on  the  Atlantic — tlie  Variatio7i  of  the  Compass, 

Say  who,  when  age  on  age  had  rolled  away, 
And  still,  as  sunk  the  golden  Orb  of  day. 
The  seaman  watched  him,  while  he  lingered  here, 
With  many  a  wish  to  follow,  many  a  fear, 
And  gazed  and  gazed  and  wondered  where  he  went, 
So  bright  his  path,  so  glorious  his  descent, 
Who  first  adventured — In  his  birth  obscure, 
Yet  born  to  build  a  Fame  that  should  endure, 
Who  the  great  secret  of  the  Deep  possessed, 
And  issuing  through  the  portals  of  the  West, 
Fearless,  resolved,  with  every  sail  unfurled. 
Planted  his  standard  on  the  Unknown  World? 
Him,  by  the  Paynim  bard  descried  of  yore, 
And  ere  his  coming  sung  on  either  shore, 

32 


250  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Him,  ere  the  birth  of  Time  by  Heaven  designed 
To  lift  the  veil  that  covered  half  mankind, 

None  can  exalt 

Yet,  ere  I  die,  I  would  fulfil  my  vow ; 

Praise  cannot  wound  his  generous  spirit  now. 

dfc  ^  ^  dfc  rifc  $>b  ^ 

'Twas  night.  The  Moon,  o'er  the  wide  wave,  disclosed 
Her  awful  face  ;  and  Nature's  self  reposed  ; 
When,  slowly  rising  in  the  azure  sky, 
Three  white  sails  shone — but  to  no  mortal  eye. 
Entering  a  boundless  sea.     In  slumber  cast, 
The  very  ship-boy,  on  the  dizzy  mast. 
Half  breathed  his  orisons  !     Alone  unchanged, 
Calmly,  beneath,  the  great  Commander  ranged. 
Thoughtful  not  sad ;  and,  as  the  planet  grew. 
His  noble  form,  wrapt  in  his  mantle  blue. 
Athwart  the  deck  a  deepening  shadow  threw. 
"Thee  hath  it  pleased — Thy  will  be  done!"  he  said, 
Then  sought  his  cabin  ;  and,  their  garments  spread, 
Around  him  lay  the  sleeping  as  the  dead, 
When,  by  his  lamp  to  that  mysterious  Guide, 
On  whose  still  counsels  all  his  hopes  relied, 
That  Oracle  to  man  in  mercy  given. 
Whose  voice  is  truth,  whose  wisdom  is  from  heaven. 


ROGERS'POEMS.  251 

Who  over  sands  and  seas  directs  the  stray, 

And,  as  with  God's  own  finger,  points  the  way, 

He  turned  ;  but  what  strange  thoughts  perplexed  his 

soul. 
When,  lo,  no  more  attracted  to  the  Pole, 
The  Compass,  faithless  as  the  circling  vane, 
Fluttered  and  fixed,  fluttered  and  fixed  again  I 
At  length,  as  by  some  unseen  Hand  imprest, 
It  sought  with  trembling  energy — the  West  !* 
"Ah  no !"  he  cried,  and  calmed  his  anxious  brow. 
"  111,  nor  the  signs  of  ill,  "tis  thine  to  show  ; 
Thine  but  to  lead  me  where  1  wished  to  go !" 

Columbus  erred  not.     In  that  awful  hour. 
Sent  forth  to  save,  and  girt  with  Godlike  power. 
And  glorious  as  the  regent  of  the  sun,t 
An  Angel  came !     He  spoke,  and  it  was  done  ! 
He  spoke,  and,  at  his  call,  a  mighty  Wind, 
Not  like  the  fitful  blast,  with  fury  blind. 
But  deep,  majestic,  in  its  destined  course, 
Sprung  with  unerring,  unrelenting  force, 
From  the  bright  East.     Tides  duly  ebbed  and  flowed  ; 
Stars  rose  and  set ;  and  new  horizons  glowed  ; 

*  Ilcrrcra,  dec.  I.  lib.  i.  c.  i).  t  I^t^v.  xi.v.  17. 


252  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Yet  still  it  blew !     As  with  primeval  sway 
Still  did  its  ample  spirit,  night  and  day, 
Move  on  the  waters! — All,  resigned  to  Fate, 
Folded  their  arms  and  sate ;  and  seemed  to  wait 
Some  sudden  change  ;  and  sought,  in  chill  suspense. 
New  spheres  of  being,  and  new  modes  of  sense ; 
As  men  departing,  though  not  doomed  to  die, 
And  midway  on  their  passage  to  eternity. 


CANTO  II. 


llie  Voyage  continued. 


"  What  vast  foundations  in  the  Abyss  are  there, 
As  of  a  former  world  ?     Is  it  not  where 
Atlantic  kings  their  barbarous  pomp  displayed  ; 
Sunk  into  darkness  with  the  realms  they  swayed, 
When  towers  and  temples,  thro'  the  closing  wave, 
A  glimmering  ray  of  ancient  splendour  gave — 
And  we  shall  rest  with  them. — Or  are  we  thrown" 
(Each  gazed  on  each,  and  all  exclaimed  as  one) 
"  Where  things  familiar  cease  and  strange  begin, 
All  progress  barred  to  those  without,  within  ? 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  253 

— Soon  is  the  doubt  resolved.     Arise,  behold — 

We  stop  to  stir  no  more  .  .  .  nor  will  the  tale  be  told." 

The  pilot  smote  his  breast ;  the  watchman  cried 
"  Land !"  and  his  voice  in  faltering  accents  died. 
At  once  the  fury  of  the  prow  was  quelled ; 
And  (whence  or  why  from  many  an  age  withheld) 
Shrieks,  not  of  men,  were  mingling  in  the  blast ; 
And  armed  shapes  of  godlike  stature  passed! 
Slowly  along  the  evening-sky  they  went, 
As  on  the  edge  of  some  vast  battlement ; 
Helmet  and  shield,  and  spear  and  gonfalon 
Streaming  a  baleful  light  that  was  not  of  the  sun ! 

Long  from  the  stern  the  great  Adventurer  gazed 
With  awe  not  fear ;  then  high  his  hands  he  raised. 

"  Thou  All-supreme in  goodness  as  in  power, 

Who,  from  his  birth  to  this  eventful  hour. 
Hast  led  thy  servant  over  land  and  sea,* 
Confessing  Thee  in  all,  and  all  in  Thee, 
Oh  still" — He  spoke,  and  lo,  the  charm  accurst 
Fled  whence  it  came,  and  the  broad  barrier  burst ! 

*  They  may  give  me  what  name  they  please.     I  am  servant  of  Him, 
&,c.     Hist,  del  Almirantc,  c.  2. 


254  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

A  vain  illusion !  (such  as  mocks  the  eyes 
Of  fearful  men,  wnen  mountains  round  them  rise 
From  less  than  nothing)  nothing  now  beheld, 
But  scattered  sedge — repelling,  and  repelled  ! 

And  once  again  that  valiant  company 
Right  onward  came,  ploughing  the  Unknown  Sea. 
Already  borne  beyond  the  range  of  thought, 
With  Light  divine,  with  Truth  immortal  fraught, 
From  world  to  world  their  steady  course  they  keep, 
Swift  as  the  winds  along  the  waters  sweep, 
'Mid  the  mute  nations  of  the  purple  deep. 
— And  now  the  sound  of  harpy-wings  they  hear ; 
Now  less  and  less,  as  vanishing  in  fear ! 
And  see,  the  heavens  bow  down,  the  waters  rise, 
And,  rising,  shoot  in  columns  to  the  skies. 
That  stand — and  still,  when  they  proceed,  retire, 
As  in  the  Desert  burned  the  sacred  fire ; 
Moving  in  silent  majesty,  till  Night 
Descends,  and  shuts  the  vision  from  their  sight. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  255 


CANTO  IIT. 


All  Asscnthly  of  Evil  Spirits. 


Tho'  changed  my  cloth  of  gold  for  amice  gray — 

In  my  spring-time,  when  every  month  was  May, 

With  hawk  and  hound  I  coursed  away  the  hour. 

Or  sung  my  roundelay  in  lady's  bower. 

And  tho'  my  world  be  now  a  narrow  cell, 

(Renounced  for  ever  all  I  loved  so  well) 

Tho'  now  my  head  be  bald,  my  feet  be  bare, 

And  scarce  my  knees  sustain  my  book  of  prayer, 

Oh  I  was  there,  one  of  that  gallant  crew, 

And  saw — and  wondered  whence  his  Power  He  drew, 

Yet  little  thought,  tho'  by  his  side  I  stood, 

Of  his  great  Foes  in  earth  and  air  and  flood. 

Then  uninstructed. — But  my  sand  is  run, 

And  the  Night  coming — and  my  Task  not  done ! — 

'Twas  in  the  deep,  immeasurable  cave 
Of  Andes,  echoing  to  the  Southern  wave, 
'Mid  pillars  of  Basalt,  the  work  of  fire, 
That,  giant-like,  to  upper  day  aspire. 


256  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

'Twas  there  that  now,  as  wont  in  heaven  to  shine, 
Forms  of  angelic  mould  and  grace  divine 
Assembled.     All,  exiled  the  realms  of  rest, 
In  vain  the  sadness  of  their  souls  suppressed ; 
Yet  of  their  glory  many  a  scattered  ray 
Shot  thro'  the  gathering  shadows  of  decay. 
Each  moved  a  God ;  and  all,  as  Gods,  possessed 
One  half  the  globe  ;  from  pole  to  pole  confessed ! 

Oh  could  I  now — but  how  in  mortal  verse — 
Their  numbers,  their  heroic  deeds  rehearse  I 
These  in  dim  shrines  and  barbarous  symbols  reign, 
Where  Plata  and  Maragnon  meet  the  Main. 
Those  the  wild  hunter  worships  as  he  roves, 
In  the  green  shade  of  Chili's  fragrant  groves; 
Or  warrior-tribes  with  rites  of  blood  implore. 
Whose  night-fires  gleam  along  the  sullen  shore 
Of  Huron  or  Ontario,  inland  seas, 
What  time  the  song  of  death  is  in  the  breeze ! 

'Twas  now  in  dismal  pomp  and  order  due. 
While  the  vast  concave  flashed  with  lightnings  blue, 
On  shining  pavements  of  metallic  ore. 
That  many  an  age  the  fusing  sulphur  bore. 
They  held  high  council.     All  was  silence  round. 
When,  with  a  voice  most  sweet  yet  most  profound, 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  257 

A  sovereign  Spirit  burst  the  gates  of  night, 

And  from  his  wings  of  gold  shook  drops  of  liquid  light ! 

MerioxN,  commissioned  with  his  host  to  sweep 

From  age  to  age  the  melancholy  deep ! 

Chief  of  the  Zeaii,  whom  the  Isles  obeyed, 

By  Ocean  severed  from  a  world  of  shade. 


"  Prepare,  again  prepare," 
Thus  o'er  the  soul  the  thrilling  accents  came, 
"  Thrones  to  resign  for  lakes  of  living  flame, 

And  triumph  for  despair. 
He,  on  whose  call  afflicting  thunders  wait. 

Has  willed  it ;  and  his  will  is  fate ! 
In  vain  the  legions,  emulous  to  save. 

Hung  in  the  tempest  o'er  the  troubled  main ; 
Turned  each  presumptuous  prow  that  broke  the  wave, 

And  dashed  it  on  its  shores  again. 
All  is  fulfilled!  Behold,  in  close  array. 
What  mighty  banners  stream  in  the  bright  track  of  day  ! 

II. 
"  No  voice  as  erst  shall  in  the  desert  rise  ; 
Nor  ancient,  dread  solemnities 

33 


258  '  ROGERS'POEMS. 

With  scorn  of  death  the  trembling  tribes  inspire. 
Wreaths  for  the  Conqueror's  brow  the  victims  bind ! 
Yet,  tho'  we  fled  yon  firmament  of  fire, 
Still  shall  we  fly,  all  hope  of  rule  resigned  ?" 


He  spoke  ;  and  all  was  silence,  all  was  night ! 
Each  had  already  winged  his  formidable  flight. 


CANTO  IV. 

The  Voyage  continued. 

"  Ah,  why  look  back,  tho'  all  is  left  behind? 
No  sounds  of  life  are  stirring  in  the  wind. — 
And  you,  ye  birds,  winging  your  passage  home. 
How  blest  ye  are ! — We  know  not  where  we  roam. 
We  go,"  they  cried,  "  go  to  return  no  more ; 
Nor  ours,  alas,  the  transport  to  explore 
A  human  footstep  on  a  desert  shore !" 

— Still,  as  beyond  this  mortal  life  impelled 
By  some  mysterious  energy.  He  held 
His  everlasting  course.     Still  self-possessed, 
High  on  the  deck  He  stood,  disdaining  rest ; 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  259 

(His  amber  chain  the  only  badge  he  bore, 
His  mantle  blue  such  as  his  fathers  wore) 
Fathomed,  with  searching  hand,  the  dark  profound, 
And  scattered  hope  and  glad  assurance  round; 
Tho',  like  some  strange  portentous  dream,  the  Past 
Still  hovered,  and  the  cloudless  sky  o'ercast. 
At  daybreak  might  the  Caravels*  be  seen. 
Chasing  their  shadows  o'er  the  deep  serene ; 
Their  burnished  prows  lashed  by  the  sparkling  tide. 
Their  green-cross  standards  waving  far  and  wide. 
And  now  once  more  to  better  thoughts  inclined, 
The  seaman,  mounting,  clamoured  in  the  wind. 
The  soldier  told  his  tales  of  love  and  war ; 
The  courtier  sung — sung  to  his  gay  guitar. 
Round,  at  Primero,  sate  a  whiskered  band ; 
So  Fortune  smiled,  careless  of  sea  or  land  ! 
Leon,  Montalvan,  (serving  side  by  side ; 
Two  with  one  soul — and,  as  they  lived,  they  died) 
Vasco  the  brave,  thrice  found  among  the  slain,  * 

Thrice,  and  how  soon,  up  and  in  arms  again. 
As  soon  to  wish  he  had  been  sought  in  vain  ; 
Chained  down  in  Fez,  beneath  the  bitter  thong, 
To  the  hard  bench  and  heavy  oar  so  long  I 

*  Light  vct^sels,  formerly  used  by  the  Spaniards  and  Portuguese. 


260  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Albert  of  Florence,  who,  at  twilight-time, 
In  my  rapt  ear  poured  Dante's  tragic  rhyme, 
Screened  by  the  sail  as  near  the  mast  we  lay, 
Our  nights  illumined  by  the  ocean-spray  ; 
And  Manfred,  who  espoused  with  jewelled  ring 
Young  Isabel,  then  left  her  sorrowing : 
Lerma  '  the  generous,'  Avila  '  the  proud  ;' 
Velasquez,  Garcia,  thro'  the  echoing  crowd 
Traced  by  their  mirth — from  Ebro's  classic  shore, 
From  golden  Tajo,  to  return  no  more  ! 


CANTO  V. 


The  Voyage  continued. 


Yet  who  but  He  undaunted  could  explore 
A  world  of  waves,  a  sea  without  a  shore. 
Trackless  and  vast  and  wild  as  that  revealed 
When  round  the  Ark  the  birds  of  tempest  wheeled 
When  all  was  still  in  the  destroying  hour — 
No  sign  of  man  !  no  vestige  of  his  power ! 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  '  261 

One  at  the  stern  before  the  hour-glass  stood, 
As  'twere  to  count  the  sands  ;  one  o'er  the  flood 
Gazed  for  St.  Elmo  ;*  while  another  cried 
"  Once  more  good  morrow  !"  and  sate  down  and  sighed. 
Day,  when  it  came,  came  only  with  its  light. 
Though  long  invoked,  'twas  sadder  than  the  night ! 
Look  where  He  would,  for  ever  as  He  turned, 
He  met  the  eye  of  one  that  inly  mourned. 

Then  sunk  his  generous  spirit,  and  He  wept. 
The  friend,  the  father  rose  ;  the  hero  slept. 
Palos,  thy  port,  with  many  a  pang  resigned. 
Filled  with  its  busy  scenes  his  lonely  mind  ; 
The  solemn  march,  the  vows  in  concert  given. 
The  bended  knees  and  lifted  hands  to  heaven, 
The  incensed  rites  and  choral  harmonies, 
The  Guardian's  blessings  mingling  with  his  sighs ; 
While  his  dear  boys — ah,  on  his  neck  they  hung, 
And  long  at  parting  to  his  garments  clung.t 

*  A  luminous  appearance  of  good  omen. 

t  His  public  procession  to  the  convent  of  La  Rabida  on  the  day  before  he 
set  sail.  It  was  there  that  his  sons  had  received  their  education  ;  and  he 
himself  appears  to  have  passed  some  time  there,  the  venerable  Guardian, 
Juan  Perez  de  Marchena,  being  his  zealous  and  affectionate  friend. — The 
ceremonies  of  his  departure  and  return  are  represented  in  many  of  the 
fresco-paintings  in  the  palaces  of  Genoa. 


262  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Oft  in  the  silent  night-watch  doubt  and  fear 
Broke  in  uncertain  murmurs  on  his  ear. 
Oft  the  stern  Catalan,  at  noon  of  day, 
Muttered  dark  threats,  and  lingered  to  obey  ; 
Tho'  that  brave  Youth — he,  whom  his  courser  bore 
Right  thro'  the  midst,  when,  fetlock  deep  in  gore. 
The  great  Gonzalo  battled  with  the  Moor, 
(What  time  the  Alhambra  shook — soon  to  unfold 
Its  sacred  courts,  and  fountains  yet  untold, 
Its  holy  texts  and  arabesques  of  gold) 
Tho'  RoLDAN,  sleep  and  death  to  him  alike, 
Grasped  his  good  sword  and  half  unsheathed  to  strike. 
"  Oh  born  to  wander  with  your  flocks,"  he  cried, 
"  And  bask  and  dream  along  the  mountain-side  ; 
To  urge  your  mules,  tinkling  from  hill  to  hill  ; 
Or  at  the  vintage-feast  to  drink  your  fill, 
And  strike  your  castanets,  with  gipsy-maid 
Dancing  Fandangos  in  the  chestnut  shade — 
Come  on,"  he  cried,  and  threw  his  glove  in  scorn, 
"  Not  this  your  wonted  pledge,  the  brimming  horn. 
Valiant  in  peace  !     Adventurous  at  home ! 
Oh,  had  ye  vowed  with  pilgrim-staff  to  roam  ; 
Or  with  banditti  sought  the  sheltering  wood. 
Where  mouldering  crosses  mark  the  scene  of  blood  I — " 


ROGERS'    POEMS. 


He  said,  he  drew;  then,  at  his  Master's  frown, 
Sullenly  sheathed,  plunging  the  weapon  down. 


263 


CANTO  VI. 

The  flight  of  an  Angel  of  Darkness. 

War  and  the  Great  in  War  let  others  sing, 
Havoc  and  spoil,  and  tears  and  triumphing ; 
The  morning-march  that  flashes  to  the  sun, 
The  feast  of  vultures  when  the  day  is  done  ; 
And  the  strange  tale  of  many  slain  for  one ! 
I  sing  a  Man,  amid  his  sufferings  here. 
Who  watched  and  served  in  humbleness  and  fear  ; 
Gentle  to  others,  to  himself  severe. 

Still  unsubdued  by  Danger's  varying  form. 
Still,  as  unconscious  of  the  coming  storm, 
He  looked  elate ;  and,  with  his  wonted  smile. 
On  the  great  Ordnance  leaning,  would  beguile 
The  hour  with  talk.     His  beard,  his  mien  sublime. 
Shadowed  by  Age — by  Age  before  the  time,* 
From  many  a  sorrow  borne  in  many  a  clime, 

*  Hist.  c.  3. 


264  ROGERS'   POEMS. 

Moved  every  heart.     And  now  in  opener  skies 
Stars  yet  unnamed  of  purer  radiance  rise  ! 
Stars,  milder  suns,  that  love  a  shade  to  cast. 
And  on  the  bright  wave  fling  the  trembling  mast ! 
Another  firmament!  the  orbs  that  roll, 
Singly  or  clustering,  round  the  Southern  pole ! 
Not  yet  the  four  that  glorify  the  Night — 
Ah,  how  forget  when  to  my  ravished  sight, 
The  Cross  shone  forth  in  everlasting  light ! 

'Twas  the  mid  hour,  when  He,  whose  accents  dread 
Still  wandered  thro'  the  regions  of  the  dead, 
(Merion,  commissioned  with  his  host  to  sweep 
From  age  to  age  the  melancholy  deep) 
To  elude  the  seraph-giiard  that  watched  for  man, 
And  mar,  as  erst,  the  Eternal's  perfect  plan, 
Rose  like  the  Condor,  and,  at  towering  height. 
In  pomp  of  plumage  sailed,  deepening  the  shades  of 

night. 
Roc  of  the  West !  to  him  all  empire  given ! 
Who  bears  Axalhua's  dragon-folds  to  heaven  ; 
His  flight  a  whirlwind,  and,  when  heard  afar. 
Like  thunder,  or  the  distant  din  of  war  ! 

Mountains  and  seas  fled  backward  as  he  passed 
O'er  the  great  globe,  by  not  a  cloud  o'ercast 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  265 

From  the  Antarctic,  from  the  Land  of  Fire* 
To  where  Alaska's  wintry  wilds  retire  ; 
From  mines  of  gold,  and  giant-sons  of  earth, 
To  grots  of  ice,  and  tribes  of  pigmy  birth 
Who  freeze  alive,  nor,  dead,  in  dust  repose. 
High-hung  in  forests  to  the  casing  snows. 

^  ^  ^  W  tP  ^ 

Now  'mid  angelic  multitudes  he  flies, 
That  hourly  come  with  blessings  from  the  skies  ; 
Wings  the  blue  element,  and,  borne  sublim.e, 
Eyes  the  set  sun,  gilding  each  distant  clime  ; 
Then,  like  a  meteor,  shooting  to  the  main. 
Melts  into  pure  intelligence  again. 


CANTO  VII. 
A  Mutiny  excited. 

What  tho'  Despondence  reigned,  and  wild  Affright- 
Stretched  in  the  midst,  and,  thro'  that  dismal  night, 
By  his  white  plume  revealed  and  buskins  white, 
Slept  RoLDAN.     When  he  closed  his  gay  career, 
Hope  fled  for  ever,  and  with  Hope  fled  Fear. 

*  Tierra  del  Fuego. 
34 


266  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Blest  with  each  gift  indulgent  Fortune  sends, 
Birth  and  its  rights,  wealth  and  its  train  of  friends. 
Starlike  he  shone !     Now  beggared  and  alone, 
Danger  he  wooed,  and  claimed  her  for  his  own. 

O'er  him  a  Vampyre  his  dark  wings  displayed. 
'Twas  Merioiv's  self,  covering  with  dreadful  shade. 
He  came,  and,  couched  on  Roldan's  ample  breast, 
Each  secret  pore  of  breathing  life  possessed, 
Fanning  the  sleep  that  seemed  his  final  rest ; 
Then,  inly  gliding  like  a  subtle  flame. 
Thrice,  with  a  cry  that  thrilled  the  mortal  frame, 
Called  on  the  Spirit  within.     Disdaining  flight, 
Calmly  she  rose,  collecting  all  her  might.* 
Dire  was  the  dark  encounter !     Long  unquelled. 
Her  sacred  seat,  sovereign  and  pure,  she  held. 
At  length  the  great  Foe  binds  her  for  his  prize. 
And  awful,  as  in  death,  the  body  lies ! 

Not  long  to  slumber !     In  an  evil  hour 
Informed  and  lifted  by  the  unknown  Power, 
It  starts,  it  speaks!  "  We  live,  we  breathe  no  more! 
The  fatal  wind  blows  on  the  dreary  shore ! 


'"^  — mafjnnin  si  yioctoro  possit 
Excussipso  dciim. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  267 

On  yonder  clifis,  beckoning  their  fellow-prey. 
The  spectres  stalk,  and  murmur  at  delay* 
— Yet  if  thou  canst  (not  for  myself  I  plead ! 
Mine  but  to  follow  where  'tis  thine  to  lead) 
Oh  turn  and  save  !     To  thee,  with  streaming  eyes, 
To  thee  each  widow  kneels,  each  orphan  cries! 
Who  now,  condemned  the  lingering  hours  to  tell, 
Think  and  but  think  of  those  they  loved  so  well !" 

All  melt  in  tears !  but  what  can  tears  avail  ? 
These  climb  the  mast,  and  shift  the  swelling  sail. 
These  snatch  the  helm ;  and  round  me  now  I  hear 
Smiting  of  hands,  outcries  of  grief  and  fear,t 
(That  in  the  aisles  at  midnight  haunt  me  still. 
Turning  my  lonely  thoughts  from  good  to  ill) 
"  Were  there  no  graves — none  in  our  land,"  they  cry, 
*'  That  thou  hast  brought  us  on  the  deep  to  die  ?" 

Silent  with  sorrow,  long  within  his  cloak 
His  face  he  muffled — then  the  Hero  spoke. 
"  Generous  and  brave !  when  God  himself  is  here. 
Why  shake  at  shadows  in  your  mid  career? 
He  can  suspend  the  laws  himself  designed, 
He  walks  the  waters,  and  the  winged  wind ; 

*  Kiiripidrs  in  Alccst..  v.  255. 

t  Voci  altc  c  fioclio,  c  .stioii  fli  man  con  ellc. — J)ANrK. 


268  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Himself  your  guide !  and  yours  the  high  behest, 
To  lift  your  voice,  and  bid  a  world  be  blest ! 
And  can  you  shrink  ?  to  you,  to  you  consigned 
The  glorious  privilege  to  serve  mankind  ! 
Oh  had  I  perished,  when  my  failing  frame 
Clung  to  the  shattered  oar  'mid  wrecks  of  flame ! 
— Was  it  for  this  I  lingered  life  away. 
The  scorn  of  Folly,  and  of  Fraud  the  prey ; 
Bowed  down  my  mind,  the  gift  His  bounty  gave. 
At  courts  a  suitor,  and  to  slaves  a  slave  ? 
— Yet  in  His  name  whom  only  we  should  fear, 
('Tis  all,  all  I  shall  ask,  or  you  shall  hear) 
Grant  but  three  days" — He  spoke  not  uninspired  ; 
And  each  in  silence  to  his  watch  retired. 

At  length  among  us  came  an  unknown  Voice ! 
"  Go,  if  ye  will ;  and,  if  ye  can,  rejoice. 
Go,  with  unbidden  guests  the  banquet  share. 
In  his  own  shape  shall  Death  receive  you  there." 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  269 


CANTO  VIII.  •  ' 

Land  discovered. 

Twice  in  the  zenith  blazed  the  orb  of  light ; 
No  shade,  all  sun,  insufferably  bright ! 
Then  the  long  line  found  rest — in  coral  groves 
Silent  and  dark,  where  the  sea-lion  roves : — 
And  all  on  deck,  kindling  to  life  again, 
Sent  forth  their  anxious  spirits  o'er  the  main. 

"  Oh  whence,  as  wafted  from  Elysium,  whence 
These  perfumes,  strangers  to  the  raptured  sense  ? 
These  boughs  of  gold,  and  fruits  of  heavenly  hue, 
Tinging  with  vermeil  light  the  billows  blue  ? 
And  (thrice,  thrice  blessed  is  the  eye  that  spied, 
The  hand  that  snatched  it  sparkling  in  the  tide) 
Whose  cunning  carved  this  vegetable  bowl,* 
Symbol  of  social  rites,  and  intercourse  of  soul  ?" 
Such  to  their  grateful  ear  the  gush  of  springs. 
Who  course  the  ostrich,  as  away  she  wings  ; 

*  Ex  ligno  luciilo  confectum,  ct  .irte  luira  labtnatum.  i'.  Mart.yr.  dec.  i.  n. 


270  ROGERS'   POEMS. 

Sons  of  the  desert !  who  delight  to  dwell 
'Mid  kneeling  camels  round  the  sacred  well ; 
Who,  ere  the  terrors  of  his  pomp  be  passed, 

Fall  to  the  demon  in  the  redd'ning  blast* 

****** 

The  sails  were  furled  ;  with  many  a  melting  close, 
Solemn  and  slow  the  evening-anthem  rose, 
Rose  to  the  Virgin.     'Twas  the  hour  of  day. 
When  setting  suns  o'er  summer-seas  display 
A  path  of  glory,  opening  in  the  west 
To  golden  climes,  and  islands  of  the  blest ; 
And  human  voices,  on  the  silent  air, 
Went  o'er  the  waves  in  songs  of  gladness  there ! 

Chosen  of  Men  !     'Twas  thine,  at  noon  of  night, 
First  from  the  prow  to  hail  the  glimmering  light  ; 
(Emblem  of  Truth  divine,  whose  secret  ray 
Enters  the  soul  and  makes  the  darkness  day !) 
"  Pedro  !  Rodrigo  !  there,  methought,  it  shone  I 
There — in  the  west !  and  now,  alas,  'tis  gone  I — 
'Twas  all  a  dream !  we  gaze  and  gaze  in  vain ! 
— But  mark  and  speak  not,  there  it  comes  again  I 

*  Tlic  Simoom. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  271 

It  moves ! — what  form  unseen,  what  being  there 
With  torch-like  lustre  fires  the  murky  air  ? 
His  instincts,  passions,  say,  how  like  our  own  ? 
Oh !  when  will  day  reveal  a  world  unknown  ?" 

^P  ^  TT  VT^  %  ^ 

^  TF  *  vf-'  ^  ^- 


j  ^Niy 


CANTO  IX.  11  ^  -^JR  >i  r  ^- 

GALrpo  •• 

The  New  World.  •  ^.,  .  __  '    :  f  ■■.     ■. 

Long  on  the  deep  the  mists  of  morning  lay, 
Then  rose,  revealing,  as  they  rolled  away, 
Half-circling  hills,  whose  everlasting  woods 
Sweep  with  their  sable  skirts  the  shadowy  floods : 
And  say,  when  all,  to  holy  transport  given. 
Embraced  and  wept  as  at  the  gates  of  Heaven, 
When  one  and  all  of  us,  repentant,  ran, 
And,  on  our  faces,  blessed  the  wondrous  Man  ; 
Say,  was  I  then  deceived,  or  from  the  skies 
Burst  on  my  ear  seraphic  harmonies  ? 
"  Glory  to  God  !"  unnumbered  voices  sung, 
"  Glory  to  God !"  the  vales  and  mountains  rung, 


272  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

♦     Voices  that  hailed  Creation's  primal  morn, 
And  to  the  shepherds  sung  a  Saviour  born. 

^  ^  #  %  %  ^ 

Slowly,  bare-headed,  thro'  the  surf  we  bore 
The  sacred  cross,  and,  kneeling,  kissed  the  shore. 
But  what  a  scene  was  there !     Nymphs  of  romance, 
Youths  graceful  as  the  Faun,  with  eager  glance, 
Spring  from  the  glades,  and  down  the  alleys  peep. 
Then  headlong  rush,  bounding  from  steep  to  steep, 
And  clap  their  hands,  exclaiming  as  they  run, 
"  Come  and  behold  the  Children  of  the  Sun  !" 
When  hark,  a  signal-shot !     The  voice,  it  came 
Over  the  sea  in  darkness  and  in  flame ! 
They  saw,  they  heard ;  and  up  the  highest  hill, 
As  in  a  picture,  all  at  once  were  still ! 
Creatures  so  fair,  in  garments  strangely  wrought, 
From  citadels,  with  Heaven's  own  thunder  fraught, 
Checked  their  light  footsteps — statue-like  they  stood 
As  worshipped  forms,  the  Genii  of  the'^Wood! 

At  length  the  spell  dissolves!     The  warrior's  lance 
Rings  on  the  tortoise  with  wild  dissonance  ! 
And  see,  the  regal  plumes,  the  couch  of  state  ! 
Still  where  it  moves  the  wise  in  council  wait ! 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  273 

See  now  borne  forth  the  monstrous  mask  of  gold, 

And  ebon  chair  of  many  a  serpent-fold  ; 

These  now  exchanged  for  gifts  that  thrice  surpass 

The  wondrous  ring,  and  lamp,  and  horse  of  brass. 

What  long-drawn  tube  transports  the  gazer  home, 

Kindling  with  stars  at  noon  the  ethereal  dome  ? 

'Tis  here  :  and  here  circles  of  solid  light 

Charm  with  another  self  the  cheated  sight ; 

As  man  to  man  another  self  disclose, 

That  now  with  terror  starts,  with  triumph  glows ! 

CANTO  X. 

Cora — Luxuriant    Vegetation — the  Humming-bird — the    Fou?iiain 

of  Youth. 

Then  Cora  came,  the  youngest  of  her  race, 
And  in  her  hands  she  hid  her  lovely  face  ; 
Yet  oft  by  stealth  a  timid  glance  she  cast, 
And  now  with  playful  step  the  Mirror  passed, 
Each  bright  reflection  brighter  than  the  last ! 
And  oft  behind  it  flew,  and  oft  before ; 
The  more  she  searched,  pleased  and   perplexed   the 
more  I 

35 


274  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

And  look'd   and  laugh'd,  and  blush'd  with  quick  sur- 
prise ! 
Her  lips  all  mirth,  all  ecstasy  her  eyes ! 

But  soon  the  telescope  attracts  her  view  ; 
And  lo,  her  lover  in  his  light  canoe 
Rocking,  at  noon-tide,  on  the  silent  sea, 
Before  her  lies  !     It  cannot,  cannot  be. 
Late  as  he  left  the  shore,  she  lingered  there, 
Till,  less  and  less,  he  melted  into  air ! — 
Sigh  after  sigh  steals  from  her  gentle  frame, 
And  say — that  murmur — was  it  not  his  name  ? 
She  turns,  and  thinks ;  and,  lost  in  wild  amaze, 
Gazes  again,  and  could  for  ever  gaze  ! 

Nor  can  thy  flute,  Alonso,  now  excite 
As  in  Valencia,  when,  with  fond  delight, 
Francisca,  waking,  to  the  lattice  flew, 
So  soon  to  love  and  to  be  wretched  too ! 
Hers  thro'  a  convent-grate  to  send  her  last  adieu. 
— Yet  who  now  comes  uncalled  ;  and  round  and  round, 
And  near  and  nearer  flutters  to  the  sound  ; 
Then  stirs  not,  breathes  not — on  enchanted  ground  ? 
Who  now  lets  fall  the  flowers  she  culled  to  wear 
When  he,  who  promised,  should  at  eve  be  there ; 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  275 

And  faintly  smiles,  and  hangs  her  head  aside 
The  tear  that  glistens  on  her  cheek  to  hide ! 
Ah,  who  but  Cora  ? — till  inspired,  possessed, 
At  once  she  springs,  and  clasps  it  to  her  breast ! 

Soon  from  the  bay  the  mingling  crowd  ascends, 
Kindred  first  met !  by  sacred  instinct  Friends  ! 
Thro'  citron-groves,  and  fields  of  yellow  maize, 
Thro'  plantain-walks  where  not  a  sunbeam  plays. 
Here  blue  savannas  fade  into  the  sky,  . 

There  forests  frown  in  midnight  majesty  ; 
Ceiba,  and  Indian  fig,  and  plane  sublime, 
Nature's  first-born,  and  reverenced  by  Time  ! 
There  sits  the  bird  that  speaks !  there,  quivering,  rise 
Wings  that  reflect  the  glow  of  evening  skies ! 
Half  bird,  half  fly,  the  fairy  king  of  flowers 
Reigns  there,  and  revels  thro'  the  fragrant  hours ; 
Gem  full  of  life,  and  joy,  and  song  divine. 
Soon  in  the  virgin's  graceful  ear  to  shine. 

'Twas  he  that  sung,  if  ancient  Fame  speaks  truth, 
"  Come !  follow,  follow  to  the  Fount  of  Youth  ! 
I  quaflf  the  ambrosial  mists  that  round  it  rise, 
Dissolved  and  lost  in  dreams  of  Paradise  I" 
For  there  called  forth,  to  bless  a  happier  hour, 
It  met  the  sun  in  manv  a  rainbow-shower  I 


276  ROGERS'   POEMS. 

Murmuring  delight,  its  living  waters  rolled 
'Mid  branching  palms  and  amaranths  of  gold ! 


CANTO  XI. 

Evem?ig — a  Banqnet — the  Ghost  of  Cazziva. 

The  tamarind  closed  her  leaves  ;  the  marmoset 
Dreamed  on  his  bough,  and  played  the  mimic  yet. 
Fresh  from  the  lake  the  breeze  of  twilight  blew, 
And  vast  and  deep  the  mountain-shadows  grew  ; 
When  many  a  fire-fly,  shooting  thro'  the  glade, 
Spangled  the  locks  of  many  a  lovely  maid, 
Who  now  danced  forth  to  strew  our  path  with  flowers, 
And  hymn  our  welcome  to  celestial  bowers* 

There  odorous  lamps  adorned  the  festal  rite, 
And  guavas  blushed  as  in  the  vales  of  light. 
There  silent  sate  many  an  unbidden  Guest, 
Whose  steadfast  looks  a  secret  dread  impressed ; 
Not  there  forgot  the  sacred  fruit  that  fed 
At  nightly  feasts  the  Spirits  of  the  Dead. 

*  p.  Martyr,  dec.  i.  5. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  277 

Mingling  in  scenes  that  mirth  to  mortals  give, 
But  by  their  sadness  known  from  those  that  live. 

There  met,  as  erst,  within  the  wonted  grove, 
Unmarried  girls  and  youths  that  died  for  love  ! 
Sons  now  beheld  their  ancient  sires  again  ; 
And  sires,  alas,  their  sons  in  battle  slain ! 

But  whence  that  sigh  ?     'Twas  from  a  heart  that 
broke  ! 
And  whence  that  voice  ?     As  from  the  grave  it  spoke  ! 
And  who,  as  unresolved  the  feast  to  share, 
Sits  half-withdrawn  in  faded  splendour  there  ? 
'Tis  he  of  yore,  the  warrior  and  the  sage, 
Whose  lips  have  moved  in  prayer  from  age  to  age  ; 
Whose  eyes,  that  wandered  as  in  search  before, 
Now  on  Columbus  fixed — to  search  no  more ! 
Cazziva,  gifted  in  his  day  to  know 
The  gathering  signs  of  a  long  night  of  woe  ; 
Gifted  by  Those  who  give  but  to  enslave ; 
No  rest  in  death !  no  refuge  in  the  grave  ! 
— With  sudden  spring  as  at  the  shout  of  war, 
He  flies !  and,  turning  in  his  flight,  from  far 
Glares  thro'  the  gloom  like  some  portentous  star ! 
Unseen,  unheard  !  Hence,  Minister  of  111 ! 
Hence,  'tis  not  yet  the  hour!  tho'  come  it  will  ! 
They  that  foretold — too  soon  shall  they  fulfil  ; 


278  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

When  forth  they  rush  as  with  the  torrent's  sweep, 
And  deeds  are  done  that  make  the  Angels  weep ! 

Hark,  o'er  the  busy  mead  the  shell  proclaims* 
Triumphs,  and  masques,  and  high  heroic  games. 
And  now  the  old  sit  round ;  and  now  the  young 
Climb  the  green  boughs,  the  murmuring  doves  among. 
Who  claims  the  prize,  when  winged  feet  contend  ; 
When  twanging  bows  the  flaming  arrows  send  ?t 
Who  stands  self-centred  in  the  field  of  fame, 
And,  grappling,  flings  to  earth  a  giant's  frame  ? 
Whilst  all,  with  anxious  hearts  and  eager  eyes, 
Bend  as  he  bends,  and,  as  he  rises,  rise  ! 
And  Cora's  self,  in  pride  of  beauty  here, 
Trembles  with  grief  and  joy,  and  hope  and  fear  ! 
(She  who,  the  fairest,  ever  flew  the  first. 
With  cup  of  balm  to  quench  his  burning  thirst ; 
Knelt  at  his  head,  her  fan-leaf  in  her  hand. 
And   hummed    the   air   that   pleased  him,   while  she 

fanned) 
How  blest  his  lot ! — tho',  by  the  Muse  unsung, 
His  name  shall  perish,  when  his  knell  is  rung. 

That  night,  transported,  with  a  sigh  I  said 
'•  'Tis  all  a  dream !" — Now,  like  a  dream,  'tis  fled  ; 

*  P.  Martyr,  dec.  iii.  c.  7.  \  Rochefort,  c.  xx. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  279 

And  many  and  many  a  year  has  passed  away, 

And  I  alone  remain  to  watch  and  pray  ! 

Yet  oft  in  darkness,  on  my  bed  of  straw, 

Oft  I  awake  and  think  on  what  I  saw  ! 

The  groves,  the  birds,  the  youths,  the  nymphs  recall, 

And  Cora,  loveliest,  sweetest  of  them  all ! 


CANTO  XII. 

A  Vision. 

Still  would  I  speak  of  Him  before  I  went, 

Who  among  us  a  life  of  sorrow  spent, 

And,  dying,  left  a  world  his  monument  ; 

Still,  if  the  time  allowed  !     My  Hour  draws  near ; 

But  He  will  prompt  me  when  I  faint  with  fear. 

-  -  -  Alas,  He  hears  me  not !     He  cannot  hear ! 


Twice  the  Moon  filled  her  silver  urn  with  light. 
Then  from  the  Throne  an  Angel  winged  his  flight 
He,  who  unfixed  the  compass,  and  assigned 
O'er  the  wild  waves  a  pathway  to  the  wind  ; 


280  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Who,  while  approached  by  none  but  Spirits  pure, 
Wrought,  in  his  progress  thro'  the  dread  obscure. 
Signs  like  the  ethereal  bow — that  shall  endure ! 

As  he  descended  thro'  the  upper  air, 
Day  broke  on  day  as  God  himself  were  there ! 
Before  the  great  Discoverer,  laid  to  rest. 
He  stood,  and  thus  his  secret  soul  addressed. 

"  The  wind  recalls  thee  ;  its  still  voice  obey. 
Millions  await  thy  coming  ;  hence,  away. 
To  thee  blest  tidings  of  great  joy  consigned, 
Another  Nature,  and  a  new  Mankind! 
The  vain  to  dream,  the  wise  to  doubt  shall  cease ; 
Young  men  be  glad,  and  old  depart  in  peace  !* 
Hence !  tho'  assembling  in  the  fields  of  air. 
Now,  in  a  night  of  clouds,  thy  Foes  prepare 
To  rock  the  globe  with  elemental  wars, 
And  dash  the  floods  of  ocean  to  the  stars  ; 
To  bid  the  meek  repine,  the  valiant  weep, 
And  Thee  restore  thy  Secret  to  the  Deep ! 

"  Not  then  to  leave  Thee!  to  their  vengeance  cast, 
Thy  heart  their  aliment,  their  dire  repast  !t 


*  P.  Martyr.  Epist.  133,  152. 

t  See  the  Eumenides  of  ^schylus,  v.  305,  &.c. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  281 

To  Other  eyes  shall  Mexico  unfold 
Her  feathered  tapestries,  and  roofs  of  gold. 
To  other  eyes,  from  distant  cliff  descried. 
Shall  the  Pacific  roll  his  ample  tide ; 
There  destined  soon  rich  argosies  to  ride. 
Chains  thy  reward!  beyond  the  Atlantic  wave 
Hung  in  thy  chamber,  buried  in  thy  grave  ! 
Thy  reverend  form  to  time  and  grief  a  prey, 
A  phantom  wandering  in  the  light  of  day  I 

"  What  tho'  thy  gray  hairs  to  the  dust  descend, 
Their  scent  shall  track  thee,  track  thee  to  the  end  ;* 
Thy  sons  reproached  with  their  great  father's  fame, 
And  on  his  world  inscribed  another's  name  ! 
That  world  a  prison-house,  full  of  sights  of  woe, 
Where  groans  burst  forth,  and  tears  in  torrents  flow  ! 
These  gardens  of  the  sun,  sacred  to  song, 
By  dogs  of  carnage  howling  loud  and  long, 
Swept — till  the  voyager,  in  the  desert  air, 
Starts  back  to  hear  his  altered  accents  there  ! 

"  Not  thine  the  olive,  but  the  sword  to  bring, 
Not  peace,  but  war !  Yet  from  these  shores  shall  spring 

*  See  the  Eumenides  of  .'Eschylus,  v.  24fi. 
36 


282  ROGERS'   POEMS. 

Peace  without  end  ;*  from  these,  with  blood  defiled, 
Spread  the  pure  spirit  of  thy  Master  mild ! 
Here,  in  His  train,  shall  arts  and  arms  attend, 
Arts  to  adorn,  and  arms  but  to  defend. 
Assembling  here,  all  nations  shall  be  blest ; 
The  sad  be  comforted  ;  the  weary  rest  ; 
Untouched  shall  drop  the  fetters  from  the  slave  ; 
And  He  shall  rule  the  world  he  died  to  save ! 

"  Hence,  and  rejoice.     The  glorious  work  is  done. 
A  spark  is  thrown  that  shall  eclipse  the  sun  ! 
And,  tho'  bad  men  shall  long  thy  course  pursue, 
As  erst  the  ravening  brood  o'er  chaos  flew,t 
He,  whom  I  serve,  shall  vindicate  his  reign ; 
The  spoiler  spoiled  of  all ;  the  slayer  slain  ; 
The  tyrant's  self,  oppressing  and  opprest, 
Mid  gems  and  gold  unenvied  and  unblest ; 
While  to  the  starry  sphere  thy  name  shall  rise, 
(Not  there  unsung  thy  generous  enterprise !) 
Thine  in  all  hearts  to  dwell — by  Fame  enshrined, 
With  those,  the  Few,  that  live  but  for  Mankind  ; 
Thine  evermore,  transcendent  happiness ! 
World  beyond  world  to  visit  and  to  bless." 

*  See  Washington's  farewell  address  to  his  fellow-citizens, 
t  See  Paradise  Lost.  X. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  283 


On  the  two  last  leaves,  and  written  in  another  hand, 
are  some  stanzas  in  the  romance  or  ballad  measure 
of  the  Spaniards,  The  subject  is  an  adventure  soon 
related. 

Thy  lonely  watch-tower,  Larenille, 
Had  lost  the  western  sun  ; 
And  loud  and  long  from  hill  to  hill 
Echoed  the  evening-gun, 
When  Hernan,  rising  on  his  oar, 
Shot  like  an  arrow  from  the  shore. 
— "  Those  lights  are  on  St.  Mary's  Isle  ; 
They  glimmer  from  the  sacred  pile."* 
-     The  waves  were  rough  ;  the  hour  was  late. 
But  soon  across  the  Tinto  borne, 
Thrice  he  blew  the  signal-horn, 
He  blew  and  would  not  wait. 
Home  by  his  dangerous  path  he  went ; 
Leaving,  in  rich  habiliment, 
Two  Strangers  at  the  Convent-gate. 

*  The  Convent  of  La  Rabida. 


284  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

They  ascended  by  steps  hewn  out  in  the  rock  ;  and, 
having  asked  for  admittance,  were  lodged  there. 

Brothers  in  arms  the  Guests  appeared ; 
The  Youngest  with  a  Princely  grace  ! 
Short  and  sable  was  his  beard, 
Thoughtful  and  wan  his  face. 
His  velvet  cap  a  medal  bore, 
And  ermine  fringed  his  broidered  vest  ; 
And,  ever  sparkling  on  his  breast. 
An  image  of  St.  John  he  wore.* 

The  Eldest  had  a  rougher  aspect,  and  there  was 
craft  in  his  eye.  He  stood  a  little  behind  in  a  long 
black  mantle,  his  hand  resting  on  the  hilt  of  his 
sword  ;  and  his  white  hat  and  white  shoes  glittered  in 
the  moonshine.t 

"  Not  here  unwelcome,  tho'  unknown. 
Enter  and  rest !"  the  Friar  said. 

*  See  Bernal  Diaz,  c.  203 ;  and  also  a  well  known  portrait  of  Cortes, 
ascribed  to  Titian.  Cortes  was  now  in  the  43d,  Pizarro  in  the  50th  year 
of  his  age. 

t  Agustin  Zarate,  lib.  iv.  c.  9. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  285 

The  moon,  that  thro'  the  portal  shone, 

Shone  on  his  reverend  head. 

Thro'  many  a  court  and  gallery  dim 

Slowly  he  led,  the  burial-hymn 

Swelling  from  the  distant  choir.  *  ' 

But  now  the  holy  men  retire ; 

The  arched  cloisters  issuing  thro', 

In  long,  long  order,  two  and  two. 

*  *  *  #  # 

When  other  sounds  had  died  away. 

And  the  waves  were  heard  alone, 

They  entered,  tho'  unused  to  pray, 

Where  God  was  worshipped,  night  and  day, 

And  the  dead  knelt  round  in  stone  ; 

They  entered,  and  from  aisle  to  aisle 

Wandered  with  folded  arms  awhile, 

Where  on  his  altar-tomb  reclined 

The  crosiered  Abbot ;  and  the  Knight 

In  harness  for  the  Christian  fight. 

His  hands  in  supplication  joined  ; — 

Then  said  as  in  a  solemn  mood, 

"  Now  stand  we  where  Columbus  stood  !" 


286  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

"  Perez,*  thou  good  old  man,"  they  cried, 
"  And  art  thou  in  thy  place  of  rest  ? — 
Tho'  in  the  western  world  His  grave,t 
That  other  world,  the  gift  He  gave,f 
Would  ye  were  sleeping  side  by  side ! 
Of  all  his  friends  He  loved  thee  best." 


The  supper  in  the  chamber  done, 
Much  of  a  Southern  Sea  they  spake, 
And  of  that  glorious  city§  won 
Near  the  setting  of  the  Sun, 
Throned  in  a  silver  lake  ; 
Of  seven  kings  in  chains  of  gold|| 
And  deeds  of  death  by  tongue  untold, 
Deeds  such  as  breathed  in  secret  there 
Had  shaken  the  Confession-chair  ! 

*  Late  Superior  of  the  House, 
t  In  the  chancel  of  the  cathedral  of  St.  Domingo. 

X  The  words  of  the  epitaph.     "  A  Castilia  y  a  Leon  nuevo  Mundo  dio 
Colon." 
5  Mexico. 
11  Afterwards  the  arms  of  Cortes  and  his  descendants. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  287 

The  Eldest  swore  by  our  Lady,*  the  Youngest  by 
his  conscience  ;t  while  the  Franciscan,  sitting  by  in 
his  gray  habit,  turned  away  and  crossed  himself  again 
and  again.  "  Here  is  a  little  book,"  said  he  at  last, 
"  the  work  of  him  in  his  shroud  below.  It  tells  of 
things  you  have  mentioned ;  and,  were  Cortes  and 
Pizarro  here,  it  might  perhaps  make  them  reflect  for 
a  moment."  The  Youngest  smiled  as  he  took  it  into 
his  hand.  He  read  it  aloud  to  his  companion  with  an 
unfaltering  voice  ;  but,  when  he  laid  it  down,  a  silence 
ensued  ;  nor  was  he  seen  to  smile  again  that  night.J 
"  The  curse  is  heavy,"  said  he  at  parting,  "  but  Cortes 
may  live  to  disappoint  it." — "  Ay,  and  Pizarro  too  !" 

*  Fernandez,  lib.  ii.  c.  63.  t  B.  Diaz,  c.  203. 

I  "  After  the  death  of  Guatimotzin,"  says  B.  Diaz,  "  he  became  gloomy 
and  restless ;  rising  continually  from  liis  bed,  and  wandering  about  in  the 
dark." — "  Nothing  prospered  with  him  ;  and  it  was  ascribed  to  the  curses 
he  was  loaded  with." 


*^*  A  circumstance,  recorded  by  Herrera,  renders 
this  visit  not  improbable.  "  In  May,  1528,  Cortes 
arrived  unexpectedly  at  Palos ;  and,  j-oon  after  he  had 
landed,  he  and  Pizarro  met  and  rejoiced  ;  and  it  was 


288  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

remarkable  that  they  should  meet,  as  they  were  two 
of  the  most  renowned  men  in  the  world."  B.  Diaz 
makes  no  mention  of  the  interview  ;  but  relating  an 
occurrence  that  took  place  at  this  time  in  Palos,  says, 
"  that  Cortes  was  now  absent  at  Nuestra  Senora  de  la 
Rabida."  The  Convent  is  within  half  a  league  of  the 
town. 


NOTES. 

p.  249,  1.  13. 

.     descried  of  yore. 

In  him  was  fulfilled  the  ancient  prophecy, 

venient  annis 

Secula  seris,  quibus  Ocearius 
Vincula  rerum  laxet,  &c. 

Seneca  in  Medea,  v.  374. 

Which  Tasso  has  imitated  in  his  Gerusalemme  Libcrata. 

Tempo  verra,  che  fian  d'Ercole  i  segni 

Favola,  vile,  &;c.  c  xv.  31). 

The  Poem  opens  on  Friday  the  14th  of  September,  1492. 

P.  250,  1.  13. 
.     .     .     the  great  Commander 

\n  the  original,  FA  Almirantc.  "  In  Spanish  America,"  says 
M.  de  Humboldt,  "  when  El  Almirante  is  pronounced  without 
the  addition  of  a  name,  that  of  Columbus  is  understood ;  as, 
from  the  lips  of  a  Mexican,  El  Marchese  signifies  Cortes :" 
and  as  among  the  Florentines,  11  Segretario  has  always  signi- 
fied Machiavcl. 

37 


290  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

P.  250,  1.  17. 
"  Thee  hath  it  pleased — Thy  loill  he  doneV  he  said, 

"  It  has  pleased  our  Lord  to  grant  me  faith  and  assurance 
for  this  enterprise — He  has  opened  my  understanding,  and 
made  me  most  willing  to  go."  See  his  Life  by  his  son,  Ferd. 
Columbus,  entitled,  Hist,  del  Almirante  Don  Christoval  Colon, 
c.  4  &  37. 

His  Will  begins  thus.  "  In  the  name  of  the  most  holy 
Trinity,  who  inspired  me  with  the  idea,  and  who  afterwards 
made  it  clear  to  me,  that  by  traversing  the  Ocean  west- 
wardly,"  &c. 

P.  250,  1.  23. 
Whose  voice  is  truth,  whose  ivisdom  is  from  heaven. 

The  compass  might  well  be  an  object  of  superstition.  A 
belief  is  said  to  prevail  even  at  this  day,  that  it  will  refuse  to 
traverse  when  there  is  a  dead  body  on  board. 

P.  251,  1.  12. 
Columbus  erred  not. 

When  these  regions  were  to  be  illuminated,  says  Acosta, 
cum  divino  concilio  decretum  esset,  prospectum  etiam  divinitus 
est,  ut  tam  longi  itineris  dux  certus  hominibus  prasberetur. — 
De  Natura  Novi  Orbis. 

A  romantic  circumstance  is  related  of  some  early  navigator 
in  the  Histoire  G^n.  des  Voyages,  I.  i.  2.     "On  trouva  dans 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  291 

Tile  de  Cuervo  une  statue  dquestre,  couverte  d'un  manteau, 
mais  la  tete  nue,  qui  tenoit  de  la  main  gauche  la  bride  du 
cheval,  et  qui  montroit  I'occident  de  la  main  droite.  II  y  avoit 
sur  le  bas  d'un  roc  quelques  lettres  gravees,  qui  ne  furent  point 
entendues ;  mais  il  parut  clairement  que  le  signe  de  la  main 
regardoit  I'Amerique." 

P.  251,  1.  16. 
He  spoke,  and,  at  his  call,  a  mighty  Wind, 

The  more  Christian  opinion  is,  that  God,  with  eyes  of  com- 
passion, as  it  were,  looking  down  from  heaven,  called  forth 
those  winds  of  mercy,  whereby  this  new  world  received  the 
hope  of  salvation. — Preambles  to  the  Decades  of  the  Ocean. 

p.  252,  1.  4 

Folded  their  arms  and  sate  ,- 

To  return  was  deemed  impossible,  as  it  blew  always  from 
home. — Hist,  del  Almirante,  c.  19.  Nos  pavidi — at  pater 
Anchises — Isetus. 

P.  252,  1.  9. 

What  vast  foundations  in  tlie  Abyss  are  there, 

Tasso  employs  preternatural  agents  on  a  similar  occasion, 

Trappassa,  et  ecco  in  quel  silvestre  loco 

Sorge  improvisa  la  citta  del  foco.  xiii.  3.3. 

Gli  incanti  d'Ismeno,  che  ingannano  con  delusioni,   altro  non 

significano,  che  la  falsita  delle  ragioni,  et  delle  persuasioni,  la 

qual  si  genera  nella  moltitudine,  et  varieta  de'  paveri,  et   de' 

discorsi  humani. 


292  ROGERS'   POEMS. 

P.  252,  1.  11. 
AxLAiVTic  kings  tJieir  hurharoiis  jpomp  displayed  ; 
See   Plato's   Timseus;   where  mention  is  made   of  mighty 
kingdoms,  which,  in  a  day  and  a  night,  had  disappeared  in 
the  Atlantic,  rendering  its  waters  unnavigable. 

Si  qussras  Helicen  et  Burin,  Aclia'idas  urbes, 
Invenies  sub  aquis. 

At  the  destruction  of  Callao,  in  1747,  no  more  than  one 
of  all  the  inhabitants  escaped  ;  and  he,  by  a  providence  the 
most  extraordinary.  This  man  was  on  the  fort  that  overlooked 
the  harbour,  going  to  strike  the  flag,  when  he  saw  the  sea 
retire  to  a  considerable  distance  and  then,  swelling  mountain- 
high,  return  with  great  violence.  The  people  ran  from  their 
houses  in  terror  and  confusion ;  he  heard  a  cry  of  Miserere 
rise  from  all  parts  of  the  city ;  and  immediately  all  w^as  silent ; 
the  sea  had  entirely  overwhelmed  it,  and  buried  it  for  ever  in 
its  bosom :  but  the  same  wave  that  destroyed  it,  drove  a  little 
boat  by  the  place  where  he  stood,  into  which  he  threw  himself 
and  was  saved. 

P.  253,  1.  2. 
We  stop  to  stir  no  more     ... 
The  description  of  a  submarine  forest  is  here  omitted  by  the 
translator. 

League  beyond  league  gigantic  foliage  spread, 

Shadowing  old  Ocean  on  his  rocky  bed ; 

Tlie  lofty  summits  of  resounding  woods, 

That  grasped  the  depths,  and  grappled  with  tlie  floods'; 

Such  as  had  climbed  the  mountain's  azure  height, 

When  fcrth  he  came  and  reassumed  his  right. 


R  O  G  E  R  S  '    P  O  E  M  S.  -        293 

P.  253,  1.  4. 

"  LandP''  and  Ids  voice  in  jalicrinQ  accents  died. 

Historians  are  not  silent  on  the  subject.  The  sailors,  ac- 
cording to  Herrera,  saw  the  signs  of  an  inundated  country 
(tierras  anegadas) ;  and  it  was  the  general  expectation  that 
they  should  end  their  lives  there,  as  others  had  done  in  the 
frozen  sea,  "  where  St.  Amaro  suffers  no  ship  to  stir  backward 
or  forward."  Hist,  del  Almirante,  c.  19. 

P.  253,  I.  G. 

And  {ichence  or  ivhy  from  many  an  age  xoithheld) 

The  author  seems  to  have  anticipated  his  long  slumber  in 
the  library  of  the  Fathers. 

P.  254,  1.  9. 
From  ivorld  to  icorld  their  steady  course  they  kcejJ, 

As  St.  Christopher  carried  Christ  over  the  deep  waters,  so 
Columbus  went  over  safe,  himself  and  his  company. — Hist.  c.  1. 

P.  254,  1.  15. 

A7id,  rising,  shoot  in  columns  to  the  sky, 

Water-spouts.  See  Edwards's  History  of  the  West  Indies, 
I.  12.  Note. 

P.  255,  1.  1. 

Thd'  changed  my  cloth,  of  gold  for  amice  gray — 

Many  of  the  fa-st  discoverers  ended  their  days  in  a  her- 
mita'j-c  or  a  cloister. 


294  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

P.  255,  1.  15. 

'  Twas  171  the  deep,  immcasurahle  cave 
Of  Andes, 

Vast  indeed  must  be  those  dismal  regions,  if  it  be  true,  as 
conjectured  (Kircher.  Mund.  Subt.  I.  202)  that  Etna,  in  her 
eruptions,  has  discharged  twenty  times  her  original  bulk.  Well 
might  she  be  called  by  Euripides  (Troades,  v.  222)  the  Mother 
of  Mountains ;  yet  Etna  herself  is  but  "  a  mere  firework, 
when  compared  to  the  burning  summits  of  the  Andes." 

P.  256,  1.  8. 
One  half  the  globe;  from  pole  to  pole  confe&sed! 

Gods,  yet  confessed  later. — Milton. lis  ne  laissent  pas 

d'en   etre   les  esclaves,  et  de  les  honorer  plus  que  le  grand 
Esprit,  qui  de  sa  nature  est  bon. — Lafitau. 

P.  256,  1.  12. 
Wliere  Plata  and  Maragnon  meet  tlie  Main. 

Rivers  of  South  America.  Their  collision  with  the  tide 
has  the  effect  of  a  tempest. 

P.  256,  1.  17. 
Of  Huron  or  Ontario,  inland  seas, 

Lakes  of  North  America.  Huron  is  above  a  thousand  miles 
in  circumference.  Ontario  receives  the  waters  of  the  Niagara, 
so  famous  for  its  falls ;  and  discharges  itself  into  the  Atlantic 
by  the  river  St.  Lawrence. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  295 

P.  257,  1.  6. 
By  Ocean  severed  froyn  a  xcorld  of  sJuxde. 

La  plupart  de  ces  iles  ne  sont  en  effet  que  des  pointes  de 
montagnes :  et  la  mer,  qui  est  au-dela,  est  une  vraie  mer 
Mediterranee. — Buffo\. 

P.  257,  1.  14. 
Hung  171  the  tempest  o'er  the  troubled  main  ; 

The  dominion  of  a  bad  angel  over  an  unknown  sea,  infest- 
andole  con  torbellinos  y  tempestades,  and  his  flight  before  a 
Christian  hero,  are  described  in  glowing  language  by  Ovalle 
—Hist,  de  Chile,  IV.  8. 

P.  257,  1.  19. 
No  voice  as  erst  shall  in  tlie  desert  rise  ; 

Alluding  to  the  oracles  of  the  Islanders,  so  soon  to  become 
silent:  and  particularly  to  a  prophecy,  delivered  down  from 
their  ancestors,  and  sung  with  loud  lamentations  (Petr.  Mar- 
tyr, dec.  3,  lib.  7)  at  their  solemn  festivals  (Herrera,  I.  iii.  4) 
that  the  country  would  be  laid  waste  on  the  arrival  of 
strangers,  completely  clad,  from  a  region  near  the  rising  of 
the  sun.  Ibid.  II.  5.  2.  It  is  said  that  Cazziva,  a  great 
Cacique,  after  long  fasting  and  many  ablutions,  had  an  inter- 
view with  one  of  the  Zemi,  who  announced  to  him  this 
terrible  event  (Hist.  c.  G2)  as  the  oracles  of  Latona,  accord- 
ing to  Herodotus  (II.   152)  iircdicted  the  overthrow  of  eleven 


296  '  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

kings  of  Egypt,  on  the  a])pearancc  of  men  of  brass,  risen  out 
of  the  sea. 

Nor  did  this  prophecy  exist  among  the  Islanders  alone.  It 
influenced  the  councils  of  Montezuma,  and  extended  almost 
universally  over  the  forests  of  America.  Cortes.  Herrera. 
Gomara.  "  The  demons,  whom  they  worshipped,"  says 
Acosta,  "  in  this  instance  told  them  the  truth." 

P.  258,  1.  5. 

He  spoke  ;  and  all  icas  silence,  all  was  night  ! 

These  scattered  fragments  may  be  compared  to  shreds  of 
old  arras,  or  reflections  from  a  river  broken  and  confused  by 
the  oar;  and  now  and  then  pei'haps  the  imagination  of  the 
reader  may  supply  more  than  is  lost.  Si  qua  latent,  meliora 
putat.  "  It  is  remarkable,"  says  the  elder  Pliny,  "  that  the 
Iris  of  Aristides,  the  Tyndarides  of  Nicomachus,  and  the 
Venus  of  Apelles,  are  held  in  higher  admiration  than  their 
finished  works."     And  is  it  not  so  in  almost  every  thing? 

Call  up  him  that  left  half-told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold — 

r.  25!i,  I.  13. 
Tlie  soldier,  ij-c. 

In  the  Lusiad,  to  beguile  the  heavy  hours  at  sea,  Yeloso 
relates  to  his  companions  of  the  second  watch  the  story  of 
the  Twelve  Kni";hts. — L.  vi. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  297 

P.  259,  I.  16. 
So  Fortune  smiled,  careless  of  sea  or  land! 

Among  those  who  went  with  Columbus,  were  many  adven- 
turers, and  gentlemen  of  the  court.  Primero  was  the  game 
then  in  fashion. — See  Vega,  p.  2,  lib.  iii.  c.  9. 

P.  2G0,  1.  7. 
Lerjia  '  tlie  generous,''  Avila  '  the  proud  •' 
Many  such  appellations  occur  in  Bernal  Diaz,  c.  204. 

P.  260, 1.11. 
Yet  icho  hid  He  undaunted  could  explore 

Many  sighed  and  wept ;  and  every  hour  seemed  a  year,  says 
Herrera. — I.  i.  9  and  10. 

P.  261,1.  17. 
IMiile  his  dear  hoys — ah,  on  his  neck  they  hung, 

"  But  I  was  most  afflicted,  when  I  thought  of  my  two  sons, 
whom  I  had  left  behind  me  in  a  strange  country  ....  before 
I  had  done,  or  at  least  could  be  known  to  have  done,  any  thing 
which  might  incline  your  highnesses  to  remember  them.  And 
though  I  comforted  my.self  with  the  reflection  that  our  Lord 
would  not  suffer  so  earnest  an  endeavour  for  the  exaltation  of 
his  church  to  come  to  nothing,  yet  I  considered  that,  on 
account  of  my  unworthiness,"  &c. — Hist.  c.  37. 

38 


298  ROGERS'   POEMS. 

P.  2G3,  1.  7. 
TJlc  great  Gonzalo 

Gonsalvo,  or,  as  he  is  called  in  Castilian,  Gonzalo  Her- 
nandez de  Cordova,  already  known  by  the  name  of  The 
Great  Captain.  Granada  surrendered  on  the  2d  of  January, 
1492.     Columbus  set  sail  on  the  3d  of  Auo;ust  followino;. 

p.  262,  1.  11. 
Thd'  RoLDAX,  tj-c. 

Probably  a  soldier  of  fortune.  There  were  more  than  one 
of  the  name  on  board. 

P.  263,  1.  3. 
War,  and  ike  Great  in  War  Jet  others  sing. 

Not  but  that  in  the  profession  of  Arms  there  are  at  all  times 
many  noble  natures.  Let  a  soldier  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth 
speak  for  those  who  had  commanded  under  him,  those  whom 
he  calls  ''  the  chief  men  of  action." 

"Now  that  I  have  tried  them,  I  would  choose  them  for 
friends,  if  I  had  them  not:  before  I  had  tried  them,  God  and 
his  providence  chose  them  for  me.  I  love  them  for  mine 
own  sake ;  for  I  find  sweetness  in  their  conversation,  strong 
assistance  in  their  employments  with  me,  and  happiness  in 
their  friendship.  I  love  them  for  their  virtue's  sake,  and  for 
their  greatness  of  mind  (for  little  minds,  though  never  so  full 
of  virtue,  can  be   but  a  little   virtuous),  and   for  their  great 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  299 

understanding:  for  to  understand  little  things,  or  things  not  of 
use,  is  little  better  than  to  understand  iKithing  at  all.  I  love 
them  for  their  affections ;  for  sclt-loving  men  love  case,  plea- 
sure, and  profit;  but  they  that  love  pains,  danger,  and  fame, 
show  that  they  love  public  profit  more  than  themselves.  I  love 
them  for  my  country's  sake :  for  they  are  England's  best 
armour  of  defence,  and  weapons  of  oftence.  If  we  may  have 
peace,  they  have  purchased  it :  if  we  must  have  war,  they 
must  manage  it,"  &c. 

P.  2C4,  I.  9. 
Tlic  Cross  slionc  forth  in  everlasting  light ! 

The  Cross  of  the  South  ;   "  una  Croce  maravigliosa,  e  di 

tanta  bellezza,"  says  Andrea  Corsali.  a  Florentine,  wa^iting  to 

Giuliano  of  Medicis   in    1515,  "die   non  mi  pare  ad   alcuno 

segno  celeste  doverla  comparare.     E  s'  io  non  mi  inganno, 

credo  die  sia  questo  il  crusero  di  che  Dante  parlo  nel  prin- 

cipio  del  Purgatorio  con  spirilo  profetlco,  dicendo, 

I'  mi  volsi  a  man  dcstra,  e  posi  mente 
Air  altro  polo,  e  vidi  quattro  stellc,"  &c.  ' 

It  is  still  sacred  in  the  eyes  of  the  Spaniards.  "  Un  senti- 
ment religieux  les  attache  a  une  constellation  dont  la  forme 
leur  rappelle  cc  signe  de  la  foi  plantc  par  lours  ancetres  dans 
les  deserts  du  nouveau  mondc." 


300  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

P.  2G4,  1.  18. 

Roc  of  the  West !  to  Idm  all  empire  given  ! 

Le  Condor  est  le  memo  oiseau  que  le  Roc  des  Orientnux. 
BuFFOx. — "  By  the  Peruvians,"  says  Vega,  "  he  was  anciently 
worshipped ;  and  there  were  those  who  claimed  their  descent 
from  him."  In  these  degenerate  days  he  still  ranks  above  the 
Eagle. 

p.  264,  1.  19. 
Who  bears  Axalhua's  dragon-folds  to  heaven  ! 

As  the  Roc  of  the  East  is  said  to  have  carried  off  the 
Elephant.  See  Marco  Polo. — Axalhua,  or  the  Emperor,  is 
the  name  in  the  Mexican  language  for  the  great  serpent  of 
America. 

p.  265,  1.  2. 
To  where  Alaska's  lointry  wilds  retire  ; 

Northern  extremity  of  the  New  World.  See  Cook's  last 
Voyage. 

p.  265,  1.  3. 
From  viines  of  gold    .     .     . 

Mines  of  Chili ;  which  extend,  says  Ovalle,  to  the  Strait  of 
Magellan.— I.  4. 

p.  265,  ].  6. 

High-hung  in  forests  to  the  casing  snoivs. 

A  custom  not  peculiar  to  the  Western  Hemisphere.  The 
Tunguses  of  Siberia  hang  their  dead  on  trees ;  "  parccque 
la  terre  ne  so  laisse  point  ouvrir."  M.  Pauw. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.         .  301 

P.  2f)5,  1.  14. 
.     and  thro''  I] ml  dismal  nlglit^ 

"  Aquella  nochc  triste."  The  night  on  which  Cortes  made 
his  famous  retreat  from  Mexico  through  the  street  of  Tlacopan, 
still  goes  by  the  name  of  la  nociie  triste. — Humboldt. 

p.  2G5,  1.  15. 

By  his  ichite  ]ilume  revealed  and  buskins  ichite, 

Pizarro  used  to  dress  in  this  fashion ;  after  Gonzalo,  whom 
he  had  served  under  in  Italy. 

p.  266,  1.  5. 

O'f  ;•  him  a  Vampire  his  dark  wings  disjilayed. 

A  species  of  Bat  in  South  America;  which  refreshes  by 
the  gentle  agitation  of  its  wings,  while  it  sucks  the  blood  of 
the  sleeper,  turning  his  sleep  into  death. 

p.  266,  ].  6. 

'  Ticas  Mekion's  self,  covering  ivith.  dreadful  shade. 

Now  one, 

Now  otlier,  as  their  shape  served  best  his  end. 

Undoubtedly,  says  Ilerrcra,  the  Infernal  Spirit  assumed  vari- 
ous shapes  in  that  region  of  the  world. 

p.  266,  1.  9. 

Then^  inly  gliding,  tj-c. 
Many  a  modern   reader  will   exclaim    in    the    language   of 


302  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

Pococurante,  "  Quelle  tristc  extravagance !"  Let  a  great  theo- 
logian of  that  day,  a  monk  of  the  Augustine  order,  be  con- 
sulted on  the  subject.  "  Corpus  ille  perimere  vel  jugulare 
potest ;  nee  id  modo,  verum  ct  animam  ita  urgere,  et  in 
angustum  coarctare  novit,  ut  in  momento  quoque  illi  exce- 
dendum  sit."  Lutherus,  De  Missa  Privata. 

The  Roman  ritual  requires  three  signs  of  possession. 

P.  2GS,  1.  3. 

And  can  you  shrink  7  tj-c. 

The  same  lan^ua2;e  had  been  addressed  to  Isabella. — Hist, 
c.  15. 

p.  2G8,  1.  5. 

Oh  had  I jjcrishcd,  u-hen  my  failing  frame 

His  miraculous  escape,  in  early  life,  during  a  sea-fight  off 
the  coast  of  Portugal. — Ibid.  c.  5. 

p.  268,  1.  8. 

The  scorn  of  Folly ^  and  of  Fraud  the  prey  ; 
Nudo  nocchier,  promettitor  di  regni ! 
By  the  Genoese  and  the  Spaniards  he  was  regarded  as  a 
man  resolved  on  "  a  wild  dedication  of  himself  to  unpathed 
waters,  undreamed  shores ;"  and  the  Court  of  Portugal  endea- 
voured to  rob  him  of  the  glory  of  his  enterprise,  by  secretly 
despatching  a  vessel  in  the  course  which  he  had  pointed  out. 
"  Lorsqu'il  avait  promis  un  iiouvel  hemisphere,"  says  Voltaire, 


ROGERS'   POEMS.  303 

"  on  lui  avait  soutcnu  que  cct  hemisphere  ne  pouvait  cxistcr ; 
et  quand  il  Teut  decouvcrt,  on  pretcndit  qu'il  avait  etc  connu 
depuis  long-tcuips." 

p.  2G8,  1.  13.  •    ■ 

He  spoke  not  uninsinred  ; 

He  used  to  aflirm,  that  he  stood  in  need  of  God's  particular 
assistance ;  Hke  Moses,  when  he  led  forth  the  people  of  Israel, 
who  forbore  to  lay  violent  hands  upon  him,  because  of  the 
miracles  which  God  wrought  by  his  means.  "  So,"  said  the 
Admiral,  "  did  it   happen  to  me   on  that  voyage."     Hist.  c. 

19. "  And    so    easily,"    says   a   Commentator,   "  are    the 

workings  of  the  Evil  One  overcome  by  the  power  of  God !" 

p.  2G8,  1.  18. 

1)1  Ms  oii:n  shape  sliall  Death  receive  you  there. 

This  denunciation,  fulfilled  as  it  appears  to  be  in  the  eleventh 
canto,  may  remind  the  reader  of  the  Harpy's  in  Virgil. — yEn. 
III.  V.  247. 

P.  270,  ].  7. 
Ixo&e  to  the  Virgin.     .     .     . 

Salve,  rcgina.  llerrera,  I.  i.  12. — It  was  the  usual  service, 
and  always  sung  with  great  solemnity.  "  I  remember  one 
evening,"  says  Oviedo,  "  when  the  ship  was  in  full  sail,  and  all 
the  men  wxre  on  their  knees,  singing  Salve,  regina,"  &c. 
Relacion  Sommaria. — Tiie  hymn,  O  Sanctissima,  is  still  to  be 
heard  after  sunset  along  the  shores  of  Sicily,  and  its  cfiect 
may  be  better  conceived  tlian  described. 


304  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

P.  270,  1.  13. 

Cliosen  of  Men  ! 

"  I  believe  that  he  was  chosen  for  this  great  service ;  and 
that,  because  he  was  to  be  so  truly  an  apostle,  as  in  effect  he 
proved  to  be,  tiierefore  was  his  origin  obscure ;  that  therein  he 
might  resemble  those  who  were  called  to  make  known  the 
name  of  the  Lord  from  seas  and  rivers,  and  not  from  courts 
and  palaces.  And  I  believe  also,  that,  as  in  most  of  his  doings, 
he  was  guarded  by  some  special  providence,  his  very  name 
was  not  without  some  mystery :  for  in  it  is  expressed  the 
wonder  he  performed;  inasmuch  as  he  conveyed  to  a  new 
world  the  grace  of  the  Holy  Ghost,"  &c. — Hist.  c.  I. 

p.  270,  1.  14. 

First  from  the  prow  to  hail  the  glimmering  light; 
A  light  in  the  midst  of  darkness,  signifying  the  spiritual  light 
that  he  came  to  spread  there, — F.  Col.  c.  22.    Herrera,  I.  i.  12. 

p.  270,  1.  17. 

Pedro!  Rodeigo!     .... 
Pedro  Gutierrez,  a  Page  of  the  King's  Chamber.     Rodrigo 
Sanchez  of  Segovia,  Comptroller  of  the  Fleet. 

p.  272,  1.  3. 

Slouii/,  hare-headed,  thro'  the  surf  tee  hare 
The  sacred  cross, 

Signifying  to  the  Infernal  Powers  (all'  infierno  todo)  the  will 
of  the  Most  High,  that  they  should  renounce  a  world  over 
which  they  had  tyrannized  for  so  many  ages. — Ovalle,  iv.  5. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  305 

P.  272,  I.  5. 
But  irltat  a  scene  was  there! 

"  This  country  excels  all  others,  as  far  as  the  day  surpasses 
the  night  in  splendour. — Nor  is  there  a  better  people  in  the 
world.  They  love  their  neighbour  as  themselves ;  their  conver- 
sation is  the  sweetest  imaginable,  their  faces  always  smiling ; 
and  so  gentle,  so  affectionate  are  they,  that  I  swear  to  your 
Highnesses,"  &c.  Hist.  c.  30.  33. 

p.  272,  1.  5. 
.     .     .     Nymphs  of  romance,  ^-c. 

Dryades  formosissimas,  aut  nativas  fontium  nymphas  de 
quibus  fabulatur  antiquitas,  se  vidisse  arbitrati  sunt. 

P.  Martyr,  dec.  i.  lib.  v. 

And  an  eminent  Painter  of  the  present  day,  when  he  first 
saw  the  Apollo  of  the  Bclvidere,  was  struck  with  its  resem- 
blance to  an  American  warrior. — West's  Discourses  in  the 
Royal  Academy,  1794. 

P.  272,  1.  11. 

Come  and  behold,  ij-c. 

So,  in  like  manner,  when  Cortes  and  his  companions  ap- 
peared at  the  gates  of  Mexico,  the  young  exclaimed,  •'  They 
are  Gods !"  while  the  old  shook  their  heads,  saying,  "  They  are 
those  who  were  to  come  and  to  reign  over  us !"     Herreua. 

39 


306  ROGERS'   POEMS. 

P.  272,  1.  21. 

And  see,  the  regal  plumes,  the  couch  of  state  ! 

"  The  Cacique  came  to  the  shore  in  a  sort  of  palanquin — 
attended  by  his  ancient  men. — The  gifts,  which  he  received 
from  me,  were  afterwards  carried  before  him." — Hist.  c.  32. 

P.  273,  1.  4. 
The  xcondrous  ring,  and  lamp,  and  horse  of  brass. 

The  ring  of  Gyges,  the  lamp  of  Aladdin,  and  the  horse  of 
the  Tartar  king. 

P.  273,  1.  5. 
What  long-draic7i  tube,  tj-c. 

For  the  effects  of  the  telescope,  and  the  mirror,  on  an 
uncultivated  mind,  see  Wallis's  Voyage  round  the  World, 
c.  2  and  6. 

P.  275,  1.  7. 

Thro''  citron-groves,  and  fields  of  yellow  maize, 

iEtas  est  illis  aurea.  Apertis  vivunt  hortis. — P.  Martyr, 
dec.  i.  3. 

P.  275,  1.  11. 

Ceiba, 

The  wild  cotton-tree,  often  mentioned  in  History.  "  Cortes," 
says  Bcrnal  Diaz,  "  took  possession  of  the  Country  in  the 
following  manner.  Drawing  his  sword,  he  gave  three  cuts 
with  it  into  a  great  Ceiba,  and  said — " 


ROGERS'   POEMS.  307 

T  p.  275,  1.  13.  , 

There  sits  the  bird  that  speaks  ! 
The  Parrot,  as  described  by  Aristotle. — Hist.  Animal,  viii.  12. 

P.  275,  1.  15. 

Half  bird,  half  fly, 

Here  arc  birds  so  small,  says  Herrera,  that,  though  they  are 
birds,  they  are  taken  for  bees  or  butterflies. 

P.  275,  I.  15. 

« 

^        .       ...     the  fairy  king  of  floicers 

The  Humming-bird.     Kakopit  (florum  regulus)  is  the  name 
of  an  Indian  bird,  referred  to  this  class  by  Seba. 


9 


P.  275,  1.  16. 

Reigns  there,  and  revels,  c^c.  .* 

There  also  was  heard  the  wild  cry  of  the  Flamingo. 

What  clarion  winds  along  the  yellow  sands? 
Far  in  the  deep  the  giant-fisher  stands, 
Folding  his  wings  of  llame. 


.^ 


P.  275,  1.  18. 

Soon  in  the  virgin's  graceful  ear  to  shine. 

II  sert  aprc'S  sa  mort  a  parer  Ics  jennes  Indiennes,  qui  portent 
en  pendans  d'oreilles  deux  de  ces  charmans  oiseaux. 

BuKFON. 


308  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

P.  276,  I.  2. 
''Mid  hrancldng  iiahns  and  amaranths  nf  gold.  ! 

According  to  an  ancient  tradition.  See  Ovicdo,  Vega, 
Herrera,  &c.  Not  many  years  afterwards  a  Spaniard  of  dis- 
tinction wandered  everywhere  in  search  of  it ;  and  no  wonder, 
as  Robertson  observes,  when  Columbus  himself  could  imagine 
that  he  had  found  the  seat  of  Paradise. 

P.  276,  1.  12. 
And  guavas  hluslicd  as  in  the  vales  of  light. 

They  believed  that  the  souls  of  good  men  were  conveyed  to 
a  pleasant  valley,  abounding  in  guavas  and  other  delicious 
fruits. — Herrera,  I.  iii.  3.     Hist,  del  Almirante,  c.  62. 

P.  276,  1.  13. 

TJiox  silent  sate  many  an  unhidde^i  Gnest, 

"  The  dead  walk  abroad  in  the  night,  and  feast  with  the 
living ;"  (F.  Columbus,  c.  02)  and  "  eat  of  the  fruit  called 
Guannaba." — P.  Martyr,  dec.  i.  9. 

P.  277,  1.  6. 
And  sires,  alas,  their  so7ts  in  battle  slain  ! 

War  reverses  the  order  of  Nature.  In  time  of  peace,  says 
Herodotus,  the  sons  bury  their  fathers ;  in  time  of  war  the 
fathers  bury  their  sons !  But  the  Gods  have  willed  it  so. 
—I.  87. 


ROGERS'    POEMS.  309 

*        •  t 

P.  277,  1.  15.  .         «  • 

^  Cazziva,      .... 

An  ancient  Cacique,  in  his  lifetime  and  after  his  death,  cm- 
ployed  by  the  Zcmi  to  alarm  his  people.     See  Hist.  c.  G2. 

P.  277,  1.  22.  • 

4 

Unseen,  zoiheard/     Hence,  Minister  of  III !  • 

The  Author  is  speaking  in  his  inspired  character.  Hidden 
things  are  revealed  to  him,  and  placed  before  his  mind  as  if 
they  were  present.  ^ 

P.  277,  I.  24. 
.     .     .     too  somi  shall  they  fulfil ; 

"Nor  could  they  (the  Powers  of  Darkness)  have  more 
effectually  prevented  the  progress  of  the  Faith,  than  by  desola- 
ting the  New  World  ;  by  burying  nations  alive  in  mines,  or 
consigning  them  in  all  their  errors  to  the  sword." — Relacion  de 

B.  de  las  Casas. 

P.  278,  1.  1. 

WJien  forth  they  rush  as  icith  the  torrents  sireej), 

Not  man  alone,    but   many  other   animals   became  extinct 

there. 

P.  279,  1.  8. 

Who  among  us  a  life  of  sorroiv  spent^ 

For  a  summary  of  his  life  and  character  see  "  An  Account 
of  the  European  Settlements,"  P.  I.  c.  8. 


ROGERS'  POEMS. 

Of  Him  it  might  have  been  said  as  it  was  afterwards  said  of 
Bacon,  and  a  nobler  tribute  there  could  not  be — "  In  his  adver- 
sity I  ever  prayed  that  God  would  give  him  strength,  for 
greatness  he  could  not  want.  Neither  could  I  condole  for  him 
in  a  word  or  syllable,  as  knowing  no  accident  could  do  harm 
to  virtue,  but  rather  help  to  make  it  manifest."     B.  Jonson^. 

P.  280,  1.  3. 
Signs  like  the  ethereal  hmv — tliat  shall  endure  ! 

It  is  remarkable  that  these  phenomena  still  remain  among 
the  mysteries  of  nature. 

P.  280,  1,  5. 

Day  broke  on  day  as  God  himself  icere  there ! 

E  di  subito  parve  giorno  a  giorno 
Essere  aggiuiito,  come  quei,  che  puote 
Avesse  '1  Ciel  d'un'  altro  Sole  adorno. 

Paradiso,  I.  61, 
P.  280,  1.  7. 

He  stood,  and  thus  his  secret  soul  addressed. 

Te  tua  fata  docebo. — Virg. 

Saprai  di  tua  vita  il  viaggio. — Dante. 

P.  280,  1.  17. 
A7id  dash  tlie  floods  of  Ocean  to  the  stars  ; 
When  he  entered  the  Tagus,  all  the  seamen  ran  from  all 
parts  to   behold,   as   it  were   some  wonder,  a   ship  that  had 
escaped  so  terrible  a  storm. — Hist.  c.  40. 


f 

t 
ROGERS'POEMS.  31  !• 

% 
P.  280,  1.  19.   "  * 

And  Thee  restore  tliy  Secret  to  the  Deep  ! 

"  I  wrote  on  a  parchment  that  I  had  discovered  what  I  had  •       • 
promised; — and,  having  put  it  into  a  cask,  I  threw  it  into  the        .• 
sea."— Hist.  c.  37.  *  * 

P.  281,  1.  3. 

To  other  eyes,  from  distant  cliff  descried, 

Balboa  immediately  concluded  it  to  be  the  ocean  for  which 
Columbus  had  searched  in  vain ;  and  when,  at  length,  after  a 
toilsome  march  among  the  mountains,  his  guides  pointed  out 
to  him  the  summit  from  which  it  might  be  seen,  he  command- 
ed his  men  to  halt,  and  vmit  up  alone. — Herrera,  I.  x.  1. 

P.  281,  1.  7. 
Hung  i?i  thy  chamber,  buried  in  thy  grave  !  • 

"  I  always  saw  them  in  his  room,  and  he  ordered  them  to 
be  buried  with  his  body." — Hist.  c.  86. 

•  P.  281,  1.  8. 

<m  t  Thy  r ever C7id  form 

His  person,  says  Herrera,  had  an  air  of  grandeur.  His 
hair,  from  many  hardships,  had  long  been  gray.  In  him  you 
saw  a  man  of  an  unconquerable  courage,  and  high  thouglits  ; 
patient  of  wrongs,  calm  in  adversity,  ever  trusting  in  God ; 
— and,  had  he  lived  in  ancient  times,  statues  and  temples 
would  have  been  erected  to  iiim  without  number,  and  his 
name  would  iiavc  been  [ilaced  among  tiic  stars. 


312  ROGERS'    rOE  MS. 

P,  281,  1.  9. 
A  phantom  ivandcriiig  in  the  llgld  of  day  ! 
See  the  Agamemnon  of  ^schylus,  v.  82. 

P.  281,  1.  12. 

Thy  sons  rcproaclied  ivith  their  great  fathcr^s  fame, 

"  There  go  the  sons  of  him  who  discovered  those  fatal  coun- 
tries," (fee.     Hist.  c.  85. 

P.  281,  1.  17. 

By  dogs  of  carnage     . 

One  of  these,  on  account  of  his  extraordinary  sagacity  and 
fierceness,  received  the  full  allowance  of  a  soldier.  His  name 
was  Berezillo. 

P.  281,  I.  18. 
Swept — till  the  voyager,  in  the  desert  air, 

"  With  my  own  eyes  I  saw  kingdoms  as  full  of  people,  as 
hives  are  full  of  bees ;  and  now  where  are  they  ?"     Las  Casas. 

P.  281,  1.  19. 
Starts  haclc  to  hear  his  altered  accents  there  ! 

No  unusual  effect  of  an  exuberant  ve2:etation.  "  The  air 
was  so  vitiated,"  says  an  African  traveller,  "  that  our  torches 
burnt  dim,  and  seemed  ready  to  be  extinguished  ;  and  even  the 
human  voice  lost  its  natural  tone." 


,  ROGERS'    POEMS.  313 

P.  282, 1.  3.  •  ^  .. 

Here,  in  His  train,  shall  arts  and  arms  attend,  ^ 

"There  arc  those  aUvc,"  said  an  illustrious  orator,  "whose 
memory  might  touch  the  two  extremities.  Lord  Bathurst,  in 
1704,  was  of  an  age  to  comprehend  such  things — and,  if  his 
angel  had  then  drawn  up  the  curtain,  and,  while  he  was  gazing 
with  admiration,  had  pointed  out  to  him  a  speck,  and  had  told 
him,  *  Young  man,  there  is  America — which,  at  this  day,  serves 
for  little  more  than  to  amuse  you  with  stories  of  savage  men 
and  uncouth  manners ;  yet  shall,  before  you  taste  of  death,' " 
&c. — Burke,  in  1775. 

P.  282,  1.  5. 
Assembling  liere,  cj-c. 

How  simple  were  the  manners  of  the  early  colonists !  The 
first  ripening  of  any  European  fruit  was  distinguished  by  a 
family-festival.  Garcilasso  de  la  Vega  relates  how  his  dear 
father,  the  valorous  Andres,  collected  together  in  his  chamber 
seven  or  eight  gentlemen  to  share  with  him  three  asparaguses, 
the  first  that  ever  grew  on  the  table-land  of  Cusco.  When 
the  operation  of  dressing  them  was  over  (and  it  is  minutely 
described),  he  distributed  the  two  largest  among  his  friends ; 
begging  that  the  company  would  not  take  it  ill,  if  he  reserved 
the  third  for  himself,  as  it  vas  a  thing  from  Spain. 

North  America    became   instantly  an  asylum    lor   the   op- 

40 


314  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

pressed;  Huguenots,  and  Catholics,  and  sects  of  every  name 
and  country.  Such  were  the  first  settlers  in  Carolina  and 
Maryland,  Pennsylvania  and  New  England.  Nor  is  South 
America  altogether  without  a  claim  to  the  title.  Even  now, 
while  I  am  writing,  the  ancient  house  of  Braganza  is  on  its 
passage  across  the  Atlantic, 

Cum  sociis,  natoque,  Penatibus,  et  magnis  dis. 


P.  282,  1.  7. 
Zhitouchcd  sJmll  drop  tlie  fetters  from  the  slave  ; 

Je  me  transporte  quelquefois  au-dela  d'un  siecle.  J'y  vols 
le  bonheur  a  cote  de  I'industrie,  la  douce  tolerance  rempla^ant 
la  farouche  inquisition ;  j'y  vois,  un  jour  de  fete ;  Peruviens, 
Mexicains,  Americains  libres,  Fran^ais,  s'embrassant  comme 
des  freres,  et  benissant  le  regno  de  la  liberte,  qui  doit  amener 
partout  une  harmonic  universelle. — Mais  les  mines,  les  esclaves, 
que  deviendront-ils "?  Les  mines  se  fermeront;  les  esclaves 
seront  les  freres  de  leurs  maitres. — Brissot. 

There  is  a  prophetic  stanza,  written  a  century  ago  by 
Bp.  Berkeley,  which  I  must  quote,  though  I  shall  suffer  by 
the  comparison. 

Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way : 

The  four  first  acts  already  past, 
A  fifth  shall  close  tiie  drama  with  the  day. 

Time's  noblest  ofispring  is  the  last. 


ROGERS'   POEMS.  315 

•  I  P.  283,  1.  14.  ,    '        ,   /»• 

'■  Tlve  spoiler  spoiled  of  all ;  "       ^ 

Cortes.  A  peine  put-il  obtenir  audience  de  Charles-Quint: 
un  jour  il  fendit  la  presse  qui  entourait  le  coche  de  I'empereur, 
et  monta  sur  I'etricr  de  la  portiere.  Charles  demanda  quel 
dtait  cet  homme ;  "  C'est,"  repondit  Cortes,  "  celui  qui  vous 
a  donne  plus  d'etats  que  vos  peres  ne  vous  ont  laisse  de 
villes." — Voltaire. 

P.  282,  1.  14. 
.     .     .     .     the  slayer  slain ; 

"  Almost  all,"  says  Las  Casas,  "  have  perished.  The  inno- 
cent blood,  which  they  had  shed,  cried  aloud  for  vengeance ; 
the  sighs,  the  tears  of  so  many  victims  went  up  before  God." 

P.  282,  1.  16. 
''Mid  gems  and  gold  uncnvicd  and  unhlcst; 

L'Espagne  a  fait  comme  ce  roi  insense  qui  demanda  que  tout 
ce  qu'il  toucheroit  se  convertit  en  or,  et  qui  fut  oblige  de  revenir 
aux  dieux  pour  Ics  prior  de  finir  sa  miserc. — Montesquieu. 

P.  285,  1.  IG. 
Wlverc  on  Ids  altar-tomh,  ^-c. 
An  Interpolation. 


316  ROGERS'    POEMS. 

P.  28G,  1.  3. 
Tho'  in  the  western  world  His  grave, 

An  Anachronism.  The  body  of  Columbus  was  not  yet 
removed  from  Seville. 

It  is  almost  unnecessary  to  point  out  another  in  the  Ninth 
Canto.  The  telescope  was  not  then  in  use ;  though  described 
long  before  with  great  accuracy  by  Roger  Bacon. 


THE    END. 


^- 


©ateir  Ikora  Qmieti. 


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